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My Home. 



p. 23. 



THE 



FIRST 
TWENTY YEARS 



OF MY 



LIFE. 



By ALLEN RICHMOND. 






AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION; 

1122 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA. 



NEW YORK DEPOSITORY: 375 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. 



, Tfss Az 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by 

THE AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 



4®=* No hooks are published by the American Sunday-School Union 
without the sanction of the Committee of Publication, consisting of four- 
teen members, from the following denominations of Christians, viz. : Bap- 
tist, Methodist, Congregational, Episcopal, Presbyterian, Lutheran, and 
Reformed Dutch. Not more than three of the members can be of the same 
denomination, and no book can be published to which any member of the 
Committee shall object. 



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CHAPTER I. 

INTRODUCTORY. 



It is my birthday,— ray fiftieth birthday ! 
AH around me breathes the soft summer 
air. White clouds float dreamily over the 
blue sky, and the hills lie clothed in the 
sweet verdure which June only sheds over 
the earth. Yes, I was born in June, the 
loveliest of all the summer months. In 
just such a day as this, perhaps, — so bright, 
so full of all glad influences,— I drew my 
first breath, 

I have been told I was a feeble infant, 
giving at first so few signs of life that it 
was doubted if I should survive the day. 
If I had not, if that feeble spark of being 



8 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



had flickered and gone out, where and 
what would it have been now? How dif- 
ferent from this soul, that beats in an 
earthly body, filled with hopes and fears 
and flooding memories of all the sad and 
sweet experiences of an earthly life ! "Was 
it well that that frail breath grew stronger 
and the pulsations of that little heart more 
firm and equal? Was it well that that 
germ of spiritual life unfolded into the 
passions, the aspirations, the knowledge of 
good and evil, of the full-grown man ? It 
was well. "Even so, Father, for so it 
seemed good in thy sight." 

My life has been a quiet one, marked by 
few startling incidents; yet, on reviewing 
it, I have thought it would be pleasant, and 
perhaps profitable, to write down some of 
its more prominent events. It may be that 
some young man beginning life may be 
warned by my mistakes or encouraged by 
my successes. I would gladly impart to 
others the lessons I have bought by hard 
experience, that they may not pay for them 
in the same costly currency. Few, I know, 
give heed to those who have preceded them, 
or will be taught save by personal trial; but 



INTRODUCTORY. 9 



I will write, praying that some one at least 
may read and be the better for it. 

My heart warms towards the young when 
I see them starting joyfully forth on the 
journey of life; for, in the words of a 
quaint Scotch writer, "It is a troublous 
water, the water of life; and it has often 
given me a sore heart to see the young 
things launched upon it like bairns' boats, 
sailing hither and thither in an unpurpose- 
like manner, having no thought of who it 
is that sends both the soft wind and the 
storm ; and, if they have need of various in- 
struments and a right pilot-man who guide 
ships over that constant uncertainty, the 
sea, I think not but there is far greater 
need of all manner of helps to pass safely 
through that greater uncertainty, life." 



10 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



CHAPTER II. 

CHILDHOOD. 

I was born in a quiet little town, which I 
shall call Hillbury. It lies in the western 
part of New England, near one of the sum- 
mits of the Green Mountain range. It is 
inhabited mostly by small farmers, who 
live by keeping dairies and raising stock, 
They are scattered about among the hills, 
their houses being often perched on "some 
breezy knoll, where all the winds of heaven 
congregate in winter and a pure, delicious 
air fans them through the summer. Pure 
air, pure water, wild and picturesque scenery, 
are the birthright of these dwellers on the 
hills ; and it is an inheritance by no means 
to be despised. 

My first recollections are of sitting on a 
flat rock in our back-yard and looking out 
on the dense forest of pines and hemlocks 



CHILDHOOD. 11 



which covered the steep hill opposite. This 
rock was shaded by a spreading oak-tree 5 
and in this shade was built our " cubby- 
house/' — the joint property of my younger 
sister and myself. How well I remember 
this cubby-house, the depository of all our 
choicest treasures ! It was made of shingles 
laid on broken bricks, and had six shelves 
in it ; and very capacious and splendid we 
thought it was. These shelves were adorned 
with broken bits of crockery, turkeys' fea- 
thers, egg-shells painted with indigo and 
celandine, and with acorns, of all sizes, 
transformed into cups and saucers, plates 
and platters, and any other articles of table- 
furniture we chanced to need. In front of 
the top-shelf hung a festoon of shells made 
of pretty blue robins' eggs, which had been 
perforated at each end and the contents 
blown out. Who had been cruel enough to 
steal them from the nest I know not; but 
we prized them highly. Another cherished 
treasure was an arm-chair made of corn- 
stalks by an ingenious cousin of our's, which 
certainly was a little unsteady in its habits, 
and never used, even to hold Susan's dollie, 
but none the less admired for that. But the 



12 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



crowning glory of all was a small cup of 
china, — real china, — which had a handle 
and held water. To-be-sure, it had a little 
piece broken from it; but, judiciously ar- 
ranged, this did not show, and it was con- 
sidered as good as new. I can remember 
now the tiny wreath of leaves and roses 
which ran round the top : how pretty they 
were to our childish eyes, and how real and 
pure was our enjoyment of it ! I do not 
think the most expensive toys of modern 
times give more pleasure to their possessors 
than our simple cubby-house gave us. We 
used to adorn it with clover-blossoms and 
buttercups in summer and with bright- 
coloured leaves in autumn, and give tea- 
parties to imaginary friends, who feasted on 
imaginary dainties. 

I like to linger over this childish memory. 
There is something in it very sweet to* me; 
for with it are linked the whispering of the 
winds through the large oak-tree, the sha- 
dows that came and went on those grand 
old woods, the murmur of insects, the 
gushing song of birds, and, sweeter than 
all, the sound of my mother's voice as she 
sang at her work. How they all come to 



CHILDHOOD. 13 



me now, as I sit by the window and 
write ! 

It is associated also with the pretty child- 
ish face and tones of my sister Susan, — a 
blue-eyed, "toddlin' wee thing," four years 
younger than myself. I loved this little 
sister dearly, though I often tyrannized over 
her, as older brothers are apt to do ; and 
the first punishment I can remember re- 
ceiving was from my mother for being un- 
kind to her. I had pushed her down the 
back-door steps and left her screaming 
with fright and pain. I walked away, 
choosing to think she was not hurt, — only 
"making believe." I can remember think- 
ing it was manly not to pay any heed to 
her, — to put my hands in my pocket and 
begin to whistle. I had not gone far before 
I heard my mother's voice, calling " Allen ! 
Allen !" in its severest tone. I never 
thought of disregarding that; for I had 
received the old-fashioned training which, 
if it taught little else, thoroughly instilled 
that most valuable lesson, — obedience. 

I went back, trembling with a conscious- 
ness of guilt. Susan had ceased crying, 
and looked pitifully at me with her sweet 

2 



14 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



blue eyes, on whose lashes the tears were 
glistening. My mother held me at arm's 
length and gazed fixedly at me. There 
was something in her eye when she was 
displeased that always made me quail, — a 
clear light, a fixed determination, which 
left no hope of escape. 

" Cowardly, cruel boy!" she said: "you 
may be thankful you did not kill your 
sister!" And she led me unresistingly to 
the door of an empty room which had been 
used as a store-closet, and turned the key 
upon me. 

I was awed, but not subdued. I sat 
down on the floor, swelling with indigna- 
tion and determined not to make any sub- 
mission, let what would come. I remem- 
ber the thoughts which came to me as I sat 
there. I had heard my father read the 
story of Hannibal, — how he swore eternal 
hatred to the Romans when he was nine 
years old ; how he became a great warrior 
and crossed the Alps and gained glorious 
victories, — and, curiously enough, I identi- 
fied myself with him. I too would be a 
hero, — a great man ; would fight, and con- 
quer, and die ! "What I should fight was 



CHILDHOOD. 15 



by no means clear to me. I don't think it 
was exactly my mother or little sister, but 
an impalpable something which prevented 
me from doing as I wished. I speak of 
this feeling more minutely because it was 
one which afterwards filled a large space in 
my mental life, — the desire to be a great 
man and to accomplish something wonder- 
ful. 

My heroic vein did not, however, last 
long. Before noon I felt very hungry; and 
hunger is not conducive to heroism as a 
general thing, — certainly not in boys of 
seven years old. I cried aloud. I grew 
more angry, and pounded on the door in 
my rage. Then I heard my mother's light 
step, and her calm voice — oh, how calm 
and stern it was ! — saying, — 

" Allen, don't let me hear any more 
noise!" 

There was a kind of magical spell in that 
tone of her's. I cannot well account for its 
peculiar influence, but I never could resist 
its power. It was probably owing in a 
great measure to her inflexible self-control 
and to the force of habit. I had never 
been allowed to contradict her, but from 



16 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



my infancy had submitted — had been made 
to — in the veriest trifle, till the idea of op- 
position was wholly foreign to my nature, 
— one which never occurred to me when 
she spoke in that decided tone. This 
consciousness of being in the hands of a 
superior being (for such she was to me) 
quieted me. I do not think it exactly sub- 
dued me, or that if she had required it I 
would then have made any concession ; but 
I ceased to struggle. I sat down by the 
window and gazed listlessly on the prospect. 
The sky was very bright and very blue, 
with not a single cloud. The hills were 
beautiful in their stillness as they rested 
against it, with the trees all motionless in 
the soft sunlight. The pastures on the hill- 
side were green and sunny, with here and 
there groups of cows, some feeding quietly 
and some chewing the cud under the silent 
trees. No sound was heard but the tink- 
ling of the water-drops as they fell into the 
trough. All was so still, so almost solemn, 
in that noonday radiance, that my rebellious 
soul was hushed. I wished I was good ; but 
I was not, and I felt a kind of sullen cer- 
tainty I never should be. 



CHILDHOOD. 17 



At last I fell asleep. When I awoke, 
long shadows lay across the hills, the cows 
were coming downwards to the bars, and a 
fresh breeze, laden with sweet forest-odours, 
was fanning my feverish cheeks. My angry 
feelings had all gone, and I felt kindly to 
every one. I heard tiny feet pattering on 
the kitchen-floor, and longed to put my 
arms round my darling little Susan, to go 
out with her to the cubby-house and drink 
tea from our acorn cups. How sorry I was 
[ had ever been unkind to her ! I thought, 
What if I had killed her ? What if her head 
had struck on the stone at the bottom 
of the steps and she had never breathed 
again? I saw her, in imagination, in a 
little coffin such as Willie Reed was put in, 
went to her funeral, and saw her laid in 
the ground. It was a terrible fancy, and I 
wept aloud. I think I loved my little sister 
better than most brothers do, she was so 
gentle and so good ; and when I thought 
of her dying my heart was broken. Just 
at this moment my mother came in. It 
was an auspicious moment, and she doubt- 
less saw I was no longer obstinate, for she 
looked sadly, but kindly, at me. 

2* 



18 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



"Will you promise," she said, mildly, 
"to be kind to your little sister?" 

" Oh, yes, I will ! I will be good to her !" 
I exclaimed, a torrent of tears falling from 
my eyes. "I don't want Susie to die and 
be buried in the ground ! I will be good to 
her." 

My mother was a woman of few words, 
but I saw a tear standing in her eye ; and 
she stooped and kissed me (a rare thing for 
her) as she said, 

"You have been very wicked, Allen, 
but I will pray for you, and I hope God 
will forgive you." 

I don't know how it is with other chil- 
dren, but to me there was always some- 
thing very solemn in the thought of my 
mother's praying for me. She never prayed 
in the presence of us children ; but, when 
she went into her bedroom and locked the 
door, we knew she was at prayer, and the 
thought of it never failed to impress me 
with a kind of awe. 

It may be my mother erred in not speak- 
ing more familiarly to us of sacred things ; 
that we might have been won by it, if she 
had, to more loving thoughts of Jesus; but 



CHILDHOOD. 16 



one thing can be said in favour of hei 
mode of training: it gave us a reverence 
for holy things ; and reverence is a trait sg 
indispensable to all true excellence that 1 
sometimes think its value can scarcely be 
overestimated. 

How sweet and beautiful to me were the 
quiet home pleasures that night ! — the sitting 
down at the door with our basins of bread 
and milk, while the kitty came to watch us 
and eat the piece of bread we now and then 
fished out for her; the standing by the 
table to eat our gingerbread, (my piece was 
twice as large that night as usual, and I 
thanked my mother in my heart, though I 
dared not speak of it ;) the coming home 
of the cows, driven by my father when he 
returned from work; the milking them on 
the green before the door; the straining of 
the brimming pails into the cheese-tubs, 
and the pouring the froth into kitty's dish, 
while Susan and I were allowed to dip our 
bright little tin cups carefully into the tub 
and quaff a draught sweeter and richer than 
any nectar ! 

My heart was at peace, and hence every 
thing around me was beautiful. Little Susan 



20 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



seemed dearer to me than ever; and, when 
I had said my prayers and lay down beside 
her in the trundle-bed that night, my heart 
was full of gratitude. There was something 
of penitence, too, for having injured her, 
my own darling little sister; and I resolved 
I would be kind and gentle to her always, — 
always. 



HOME INFLUENCES. 21 



CHAPTER III. 

HOME INFLUENCES. 

For the first ten years of my life I was a 
delicate child, accustomed to quiet sports, 
such as girls usually like, — as my fondness 
for the cubby-house shows ; but at that age 
I became stout and healthy, and ever after 
possessed an uncommon degree of physical 
vigour. With strength of body came greater 
activity of mind and heart, and the develop- 
ment of both the good and evil in my na- 
ture went on rapidly. The influences under 
which this development took place deserve 
to be noticed ; for under a different train- 
ing I should have doubtless been a very 
different being both in youth and man- 
hood. 

My parents were poor; that is, they were 
obliged to labour for their daily bread and 
had few possessions ; yet there was in our 



22 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



home none of the degradation and want 
which extreme poverty brings. If we had 
few of the comforts and none of the ele- 
gancies of life, our necessities were always 
supplied ; and, as few of our neighbours 
were better off, there were no invidious, 
comparisons made. Few children were 
ever happier in a father's house, I think, 
than Susan and myself; and few can look 
back to the old home with a more grateful, 
affectionate regard than fills our hearts now 
that the shadows of age are beginning to 
fall across our path. 

The old home! Oh, how pleasantly it 
rises before me in its sweet greenness and 
tranquillity, with its murmuring mountain- 
brook; its encircling hills crowned with 
dark, rich forests, and the broad blue sky 
stretched over all, wider and deeper-tinted 
and more serene than any other sky can 
ever be ! 

The house was a small brown cottage, 
nestled quietly among the green trees 
around it, so as scarcely to attract the 
notice of the passer-by. It was by no 
means one of those fanciful modern houses, 
with pointed roofs and Venetian blinds, 



HOME INFLUENCES. 23 



which are nowadays called cottages, but a 
long, low building, with a sloping, mossy 
roof projecting over its front, forming 
a rude piazza, or stoop, as we called it, 
in which we used to sit when the day's 
labours were ended and watch the shadows 
gather on the pine-woods opposite. 

The cottage was of that genuine tint of 
brown artists love so well; but no artist's 
hands could have given those old boards 
their colouring. The soft breath of spring, 
the fiery suns of summer, the cold winds 
of autumn and the fierce snows and tem- 
pests of winter had all been painting them 
for more than half a century; and soft and 
pleasant to the eye were the hues they had 
imparted, — more picturesque and charming 
than any thing Art produces in her most 
successful moods. 

It was a home-like place, with the 
great oak-tree overshadowing it, the green 
yard sloping away in front, and the high 
hills rising behind it; while at the south 
there was a grand outlook over a wide 
tract of hills and valleys. These in 
some places were rugged and bare, with 
monstrous rocks lying like huge sleeping 



24 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



giants crouched upon the grass, in others 
smiling with the loveliest verdure ; while 
here and there, all over the hills and 
valleys, were scattered clusters of trees 
grouped as gracefully as if designed ex- 
pressly to gratify the eye of taste ; and 
who, indeed, shall say they were not? I 
felt then and feel still that no landscape 
could be more beautiful than this, — 
especially at midsummer, when the sun- 
light rested softly upon it and the fleecy 
clouds floated over, checkering it with light, 
passing shadows, as lovely as they were 
fleeting. And then too in autumn, how 
gorgeous were those wooded hills in their 
"coat of many colours" ! Can those who 
are born amid the brick walls of a city, and 
whose childish years are spent away from 
all the sweet influences of nature, love 
their early home as we did ? Can they turn 
back to it with hearts as grateful, as full of 
tenderness and soul-felt joy, as are filling 
our's ? I suppose they do ; for, after all, it 
is the presence of love which most sancti- 
fies a home. Yet to have one's birthplace 
amid such wild and picturesque scenery as 



HOME INFLUENCES. 25 



surrounded mine is certainly a cause for 
gratitude. 

As I have said, my mother was a person 
of few words, possessing a determined 
spirit which kept my own in check. She 
was of a calm and sedate temperament, sel- 
dom manifesting violent emotion of any 
kind, — not, I think, so much from the ab- 
sence of acute sensibilities and deep feel- 
ings as from an habitual self-control. This 
last, and a beautiful consistency between 
her words and acts, were very striking 
traits in her character. She was exceed- 
ingly watchful of us children ; but her care 
never degenerated into that fretful anxiety 
mothers so often manifest. Her face, as I 
remember it, was a grave one, with strong, 
deep lines upon it. I do not think she 
could ever have been handsome ; but her 
smile was the most beautiful I ever saw on 
a human face. It was like the fall of sun- 
light on a shady spot, transfusing and trans- 
forming what it touched. Her voice was 
one of rare sweetness, — clear and low-toned ; 
and I cannot recollect her ever speaking on 
a high, angry key. She seldom laughed, 
and never loudly ; but that beautiful smile 



26 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



would irradiate her face whenever we 
gathered about her knee at twilight or had 
earned her approbation by doing right. 
She reverenced right, — duty; and we knew 
it, not so much because she talked about it 
as that it shone out through every action of 
her life, the moving, guiding principle. She 
never lavished caresses upon us ; but a 
simple word or look of tenderness from her 
was worth more than the most profuse 
expressions from a more demonstrative 
nature would have been. 

I have heard (but not till her spirit had 
gone to its rest) that she belonged to a 
proud family and had been delicately nur- 
tured ; that her marriage to my father was 
considered by her friends as quite beneath 
her; and that by it she became almost 
separated from them. I know that there 
was never any exchange of visits, or of 
little tokens of kindness, between us and 
relatives on my mother's side, while uncles, 
aunts and cousins of my father's abounded. 
However, we never heard of any grand re- 
lations, but were always taught to be con- 
tented with our humble lot and not to look 
for great things in the world. 



HOME INFLUENCES. 27 



My father was very unlike my mother; 
and I speak of him last, partly because a 
child's thoughts more naturally revert at 
once to his mother, but also because my 
mother was really the ruling spirit of our 
household. My father was of an amiable, 
easy disposition, contented to live on from 
day to day without thinking much of fu- 
turity, or, if he did think, never seeing a 
shadow on the prospect. He had less so- 
lidity of mind, I believe, but more literary 
taste, than my mother, and spent his leisure 
hours (of which, I fancy, he contrived to 
have many more than he ought) in reading 
of a most miscellaneous character. He 
was warm-hearted and affectionate, extrava- 
gantly fond of his children, especially of 
Susan, who was his pet and darling ; never 
reproving us, but turning us over to our 
mother when any discipline was needed. 
He must have been a very handsome man 
in his younger days, for his well-formed 
features, his large dark eyes and his noble 
forehead made him a very fine-looking man 
in middle life. His figure, too, was good, 
his manners easy and winning, and his 
whole character of just the kind to inspire 



28 TWENTY YEABS OF MY LIFE. 



affection rather than command reverence. 
And very dearly did we love him, — though, 
strange to say, I think we loved our mother 
better, and yet we feared her more. We 
bounded out joyfully to meet our father 
whenever he came home, overwhelmed him 
with caresses, laughed and frolicked with 
him ; but in our graver moods we sought 
our mother and listened to her low, sweet 
voice with great delight, whether she told 
us stories of good children or led our child- 
ish thoughts upward to our great Father 
and our heavenly home. My dear, sweet 
mother! It seems but a little time since we 
stood beside her and watched the gathering 
darkness stealing over the hills and counted 
eagerly the bright, shining stars 

"As they came twinkling one by one 
Upon the shady sky." 

What a great mystery to our childish 
minds was that " shady sky," bending over 
all things so silently, so solemnly ! And 
those stars, winking and twinkling so 
brightly all night long! I used to gaze 
at them, as I lay in bed, through the white, 
looped-up window-curtain, wondering why 



HOME INFLUENCES. 29 



they were looking at me so and never 
stopped twinkling for a single minute. 
There was a strange charm to me also 
in the murmuring music of a little wind- 
ing stream, whose voice I never heard in 
the daytime, but which was always audible 
as I lay in bed at night. Its melody 
thrilled my heart with a strange, sweet sad- 
ness ; and it often comes to me now in the 
silent nigtnVwatches, stirring my soul to 
tears with its soft, liquid tone. So power- 
ful and lasting are the little things "which 
lie about us in our infancy" ! 

I have wandered from what I was about 
to say of my mother's influence over us ; 
but I am sure it was deeper and far more 
perceptible in moulding my character than 
my father's. In person I was said to be 
like my father, (I may say it without vanity, 
for surely this body, on which the storms 
of fifty winters have beaten, has little 
enough to boast of now;) but I think my 
mind was like my mother's, while Susan 
was a blending of the two. She had my 
mother's blue eyes, with my father's chang- 
ing play of face ; my mother's small figure, 
with my father's ease of manner ; my mo- 

3* 



30 



ther's quiet devotion to duty, with my 
ther's enthusiastic love of what was beauti- 
ful. Such, at least, she became in after- 
years, — my father's pride, my mother's stay. 
In our childhood I only knew she was the 
sweetest, dearest sister that a boy ever had. 

Our home training in one respect was 
quite a contrast to that of most of our 
neighbours, and, I think, to that of most 
country farm-houses. Owing to her having 
been bred in a more refined atmosphere, or 
perhaps merely actuated by her own good 
sense, my mother laid great stress on man- 
ners, and exacted from us as rigid an ob- 
servance of all the little proprieties of life 
as if we had been the children of the most 
wealthy citizen. 

" There are some things poor people like 
ns cannot get," she used to say; "but good 
manners cost nothing. We can certainly 
have these." 

She never allowed us to come to the 
table till our hair, teeth, and nails were in 
perfect order. " Your hands may become 
black and rough," she would tell us, "by 
hard labour; but they never need be dirty 
when your work is done." So thoroughly 



HOME INFLUENCES. 31 



did this attention to personal cleanliness 
become a habit with me that through life I 
have never been able to sit down without 
attending to these things; and, though I 
have always been a working-man, I have 
never found the place where five minutes 
of time could not be taken for it. " Cold 
water, combs and brushes," she would say, 
"cost very little; and, if they did not, I 
would save the expense from other things 
rather than do without them." 

When at the table, we were required to 
sit and to cut our food and hold our knife 
and fork in the proper way. ¥e were 
never allowed to speak in a rude, coarse 
voice, to cry out, " Wha-at?" as I have heard 
some children do, instead of "Sir?" or 
"Ma'am?" or to say, "Give me this," 
"Give me that," but always, "Thank you 
for this," or, " Give me that, if you please, 
sir." If we ever asked for any thing im- 
patiently, my mother's reproving eye was 
on us, and we instantly changed our form 
of expression. This civility of tone and 
manner, as my mother said, costs nothing; 
but it made our home a much pleasanter 



32 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



and happier one, and its influence was felt 
through life. 

Tidiness was another virtue rigidly en- 
forced. Every book, paper, plaything and 
article of dress was laid in its place. And 
it is singular how easily children fall into 
orderly habits when it is the custom of the 
house. I don't think my mother scolded 
at us; but we knew it was expected we 
should put every thing away, — and we did, 
even if it was not always exactly pleasant 
or agreeable at the time. No shoes run 
down at heel or with strings draggling in 
the mud, no tattered aprons, no unbuttoned 
collars nor ragged elbows, were ever seen 
about us; so that, though our garments 
were always of the coarsest kind, and some- 
times of necessity soiled, we could never be 
called untidy. 

Our good Hillbury neighbours were 
somewhat scandalized at this particularity 
in little things. It was regarded by them 
as extreme folly ; and of course Susan and 
I were often laughed at for being so " stuck- 
up" and "notional." When we carried 
our complaints to our mother, she com- 
forted us by saying, " If you' feel and speak 



HOME INFLUENCES. 33 



kindly to every one, they will soon cease to 
laugh." And so it was. I had faults 
enough of other kinds to alienate my school- 
fellows ; but Susan, refined and gentle as 
she was, was always a favourite, even with 
the roughest boy in school. 

One day I had gone in to see Tom Reed, 
— a rough, good-natured boy, who was quite 
a crony of mine ; and, while waiting for him 
to go somewhere with me, I overheard a 
conversation between his grandmother (who 
was an excellent old lady in her way) and 
a neighbour of her's, — a very coarse, rough 
woman. I remember it as well as if I 
heard it yesterday. 

"Did you -ever see any thing like the 
way Miss Richmond is bringing up her chil- 
dren? They'll be spile't as sure as fate. 
Just think of making such a fuss over their 
finger-nails every day of their lives ! And 
I don't see, for my part, as they look any 
better than other folk's children, after all. 
There's Allen Richmond, tied to his mo- 
ther's apron-string, drawlin' out his fine 
words : its enough to make a body sick to 
hear 'em. But he han't got a coat to his 



34 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



back but what's been patched, with all his 
airs." 

"I guess they're pretty hard pushed 
sometimes ; but Mrs. Richmond does all 
she can," was Grandmother Reed's re- 
ply. "I am afraid myself the children 
won't have much spunk. I don't believe 
in makin' boys too fine and nice. It don't 
help to earn a livin'." 

" No, indeed ! I should like to see our 
John sayin' * Thanky, ma'am' every breath 
he draws. John'll be good for something. 
He's got real grit, and will make his way in 
the world, I can tell you, better than such 
milk-and-water chaps as Allen. Why, there's 
our Nancy : I sent her to boardin'-school 
three months, and she come home dreadful 
finical. But I took down her sails pretty 
quick, I tell you. I warn't a-goin' to 
have her mincin' her words round my 
house. 'Nancy,' says I, 'if a kittle biles, 
it biles, and I won't have anybody talking 
about boil where I am.' Nancy's made a 
pretty likely girl, after all. But there's Jane 
Hamilton was just spile't with her boardin'- 
school airs and graces. She couldn't wash 
dishes, nor do nothin' else, for fear she 



HOME INFLUENCES. 35 



should black her fingers. And see what 
she is now, — a poor, shiftless crittur as ever 
lived." 

Absurd as this talk was, I was extremely 
mortified by it at the time ; for to be a 
laughing-stock is of all things most terrible 
to a boy of twelve. "When Tom and I 
started off together, I tried to talk as loud 
and vulgar as he did, and carried my zeal 
for imitation so far as to say " I swow !" when 
I got home. I was in the wood-shed, and 
the door was open into the kitchen where 
my mother sat. When I went in, she 
asked, looking at me steadily, 

" Allen, what did I hear you say?" 

"Not much of any thing," I replied, 
hanging my head. 

"No equivocating, child. Tell me at 
once what you said." 

I repeated the words in a very faint tone, 
and my face felt very hot. 

" I am surprised to hear you use such a 
coarse, low word. Never let me hear it 
again. It is a vulgar expression which has 
no meaning in it." 

" But, mother," I said, — for the mortifica- 
tion I had suffered was still rankling with- 



36 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIEE. 



in, — "mother, everybody is laughing at me 
and calling me names. I feel ashamed to 
be different from other boys." And I told 
her the conversation I had heard. A quiet 
smile passed over my mother's face. 

"I am sorry you should have overheard 
this, Allen," she said; "but you are very 
foolish to be troubled by it. I am sure you 
must be weak if you can't bear being 
laughed at without getting angry. You 
will always find those who will differ from 
you and me on many points; but if we are 
in the right it will be very silly to join with 
them from fear of a little ridicule. The 
first step towards manliness is to quietly 
abide by your own convictions." 

" But I believe I am getting spoiled like 
Jane Hamilton," I said, in a dolorous tone: 
" everybody says so." 

44 Half a dozen of your school-mates and 
their mothers and grandmothers don't make 
everybody," she answered, pleasantly; "and 
I think no more than that laugh at or pity 
you. As for Jane Hamilton, her story is a 
very sad one. Her parents made a great 
sacrifice to send her to a boarding-school 
for a year, where, instead of becoming 



HOME INFLUENCES. 37 



thoroughly acquainted with any one branch 
of knowledge, she got a smattering of 
several. Her manners were as vulgar as 
ever, though in a different way. She made 
great pretensions to being a lady, considered 
work disgraceful, and left her mother to 
toil for her while she lounged about in 
idleness, wearing a great deal of finery; 
and at last she married a showy spendthrift, 
very much like herself. As Mrs. Jones 
says, she is a poor, miserable creature. God 
forbid a child of mine should ever resemble 
her in manners or character ! 

"I want you, Allen," she said, after a 
little pause, " to be prepared to fill your 
own place in life respectably and usefully. 
I should be very sorry to see you attaching 
an undue importance to dress or manners. 
Nothing is more contemptible than a fop ; 
but habits of personal neatness and correct 
conversation are very different from foppish- 
ness, and are one element of a manly self- 
respect. I hope you will always discrimi- 
nate between true refinement and that 
shallow, disgusting imitation of it which is 
always despicable. Your tastes are all 
simple, and I hope always will be, let your 



38 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



future condition be what it may. You will 
have to earn your bread by hard labour; 
but," she said, in a tone of great tenderness, 
as she stroked the curls back from my 
flushed foreheadj " I do want you to be 
always a gentleman, Allen, in the highest 
sense of the word, — gentle to all, never 
coarse or vulgar in act or speech or thought, 
and always manly, — too manly to stoop to 
deceit of any kind or to lose a proper self- 
respect. Many are outwardly refined who 
are inwardly impure and vulgar, and many 
mistake pretension for gentility; but the 
true gentleman is always modest and un- 
obtrusive; and such I wish you to be. 
Above all things, I would have you superior 
to that weakness which regards labour as 
contemptible; and I am sure nothing in 
your training has tended to give you such 
an impression. My example," she added, 
smiling, "as far as it goes, has certainly 
been in favour of industry, — though your 
poor mother should not praise herself But 
the refinement of manner Mrs. Reed's neigh- 
bour objects to has never prevented me 
from being useful, I hope." 

Ah, how well we knew that! for, chil- 



HOME INFLUENCES. 39 



dren as we were, we saw that the great 
burden of maintaining the family rested on 
my mother; and, as I stood by her side 
that night, I felt that this dear mother was 
worthy of my truest love and gratitude. In 
after-years I was especially grateful for this 
attention to our manners; and to it I at- 
tribute in a great measure whatever of 
worldly success I may have had. This 
careful home training gave me self-respect 
w T hen I was brought into contact with the 
world, and preserved me from any taste for 
low and vicious society or indulgences. 
Poor we always might be, but, with such 
habits of propriety instilled into us, never 
low and vulgar in the true meaning of the 
words. 

I should omit one important feature of 
our home influences if I did not speak of 
my father's habit of reading aloud. Al- 
ways when the weather permitted us to have 
a light, he drew up after tea to our little 
table, opened his book or paper, and per- 
fect silence was enjoined upon us while he 
read. Newspapers were comparatively few 
in those days, and we only saw a Boston 
weekly and the county paper, which was 



40 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



a small sheet printed in miserable type. 
Books were not common, either; but my 
father always managed to procure them 
from some source. The minister's library 
was open to him, and history, biography 
and books of travel all passed through his 
hands. 

This forced listening soon became a rich 
treat to us, and in this way we acquired a 
taste for reading; for my father skilfully 
managed to make remarks which interested 
us and gave us a desire for further informa- 
tion. My own passion for reading became 
in time almost insatiable. There was little 
of juvenile literature in those days. Indeed, 
"The Shepherd of Salisbury Plains," Jane 
Taylor's " Hymns for Infant Minds," and 
Janeway's " Token for Children," were 
the only children's books that came in my 
way. The youthful reader was ibrced to 
read books designed for mature minds ; and 
I devoured Eollin's ten volumes of ancient 
history, Goldsmith's England and Rome, 
and even the voluminous church-histories 
of Mosheim and Milner. I did not fully 
understand them; but on looking back I 
see that a pretty good knowledge of history, 



HOME INFLUENCES. 41 



which has been most valuable to me through 
my whole life, was acquired before I was 
fourteen years old, — acquired in those long, 
quiet evenings by the light of one dim 
tallow candle and the flickering blaze of a 
wood fire on the hearth. How pleasant 
they are to look back upon, those evening 
hours, when I made acquaintance with 
Leonidas and Aristides, Cyrus and Xerxes, 
Alexander and Hannibal, Scipio and Cato, 
and a host of other ancient worthies, who 
stood before me living, breathing men, 
whom I loved or hated, whose conquests or 
defeats made my heart glow with delight or 
burn with indignation ! 

Like all boys, I was dazzled by military 
glor} r , though a purer admiration for patriots 
and martyrs was also kindled in my breast. 
Another class of books had a charm for 
me, as for all young minds : I mean books 
of travel. With what absorbing interest I 
read the narratives of Captain Biley and 
Robbins, and dreamed of sandy deserts, and 
cruel Arabs, and camels, and caravans, by 
night ! Susan enjoyed these too ; and many 
an imaginary expedition she and I accom- 
plished on a high-peaked saddle, perched 

4^ 



42 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



on a earners back, suffering cruelties and 
hardships in comparison with which those 
of our book-heroes were tame and spirit- 
less. 

From my father's reading them with 
entertaining and instructive comments, we 
learned, too, to enjoy the wit of the "Spec- 
tator," the delicate, if somewhat sickly, 
sentiment of Mackenzie, and the more 
objectionable humour of Sterne. When I 
remember these boyish acquisitions, I am 
astonished to see how much can be accom- 
plished in the humblest farmer's home 
where a taste for reading is early formed. 
I doubt if any condition of life is more 
favourable to the growth of a healthful 
love of books; for the farmer's evenings 
are his own and less broken in upon than 
those of any other class. 

When I recall the relish with which I 
opened a book of history or a new volume 
of biography, I cannot but ask myself whe- 
ther the wide-spread diffusion of literature 
especially designed for the young, and di- 
luted to meet their supposed mental weak- 
ness, is really the blessing we are accustomed 
to consider it. That it has its advantages 



HOME INFLUENCES. 43 



cannot be denied. But has it not some 
evils, — -not unavoidable, perhaps, but still 
very common ? There are more readers at 
the present day; but I must believe that 
those who did read formerly became vigorous 
from the solid nature of their mental food, 
and that many of our books for the young 
are altogether too childish to benefit the 
reader.* 

* The multiplication of children's books is no greater, 
comparatively, than that of books for older readers. The 
country is full of books and magazines and papers, and 
they are very cheap and very accessible. Without great 
discrimination and watchfulness and decision on the part 
of parents and teachers, children will have and read what 
will do them no good and much that will do them positive 
harm. The press is quite as serviceable to the followers 
of Belial as to the friends and disciples of Christ. — [Pubs.] 



44 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE CHURCH AND SCHOOL. 

In New England the church and school 
were always prominent institutions. Our 
village-church, or meeting-house, as it was 
called, was one of the old style common 
fifty years ago. It stood on the very highest 
point of land in Hillbury, its tall spire 
piercing the clouds and its double row of 
windows gleaming brightly in the rays of 
the setting sun. A walk of half a mile 
brought us to it; and we were never ab- 
sent " in summer's heat or winter's cold." 
It had large square pews, enclosed by a 
high railing, and a very high pulpit, with 
an immense sounding-board suspended over 
it. How this sounding-board could remain 
there without any visible support was al- 
ways a great mystery to me ; and I cherished 
a secret fear that it would some day come 



THE CHURCH AND SCHOOL. 45 



down and crush the minister. There were 
no stoves, and of course the house was very 
cold in winter. "We wore heavy garments 
and carried foot-stoves; but, in spite of 
them, our fingers and toes ached sadly. 

My seat when I first began to go to 
church was in a little chair which stood close 
beside a large straight-backed one, in which 
there always sat an old lady. How very old 
she looked to me! I never saw her on 
weekdays ; but a kind of intimacy grew up 
between us. She always had a pleasant 
smile of welcome for me when I took my 
seat beside her ; and when I grew sleepy in 
sermon-time — w T hich I invariably did — she 
would produce a stalk of dill or caraway, 
a peppermint or two, a bit of orange-peel, 
or half a dozen raisins, which always proved 
exceedingly refreshing and of a wakeful 
tendency. I always watched her hand 
w r hen it travelled in the direction of her 
capacious pocket, — though it frequently pro- 
duced only a snuff-box, which was passed 
to another old lady in the pew. To watch 
its circulation was a pleasant relief to the 
monotony; and its bright-coloured lid, with 
a picture of a spread eagle on it, always 



46 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



struck me as an admirable specimen of art. 
That wrinkled but kind face became most 
pleasantly associated with the Sabbath ser- 
vice; and if sometimes in a summer day, 
when I had become too drowsy for even 
caraway or peppermints to rouse me, I was 
permitted to lay my head in her lap and go 
to sleep, my happiness was complete. 

One pleasant summer Sunday, the kind 
face, the welcoming smile, were wanting. 
My aged friend was absent. Everybody 
said, ""Widow Sherman must be ill." And 
when on the next Friday, at the setting 
of the sun, the church-bell tolled softly out 
on the summer air stroke after stroke till 
we had counted seventy-nine, we knew the 
aged saint had passed away to worship 
with the redeemed above.* 

* It was formerly the custom in many parts of New 
England, when a person died during the night, to toll the 
church-bell at sunrise. Three distinct strokes were given 
for a male adult, two for a female, and one for a child. 
The age was then indicated in the same way. If the death 
occurred in the daytime, the same thing was done at sun- 
set. In a country-village, where every occurrence, and 
especially sicknesses and casualties, were generally 
known, it was not difficult to determine whose death was 
thus significantly announced. — [Pubs."] 



THE CHURCH AND SCHOOL. 47 



I could not have been more than seven 
years old; yet I remember feeling real 
grief, — not altogether selfish, I think, for 
her kindness had touched my heart. I felt 
lonely on Sundays beside that vacant chair, 
and mourned that I should see that kind 
face no more in God's earthly courts. Shall 
we ever sit side by side in the upper tem- 
ple? God grant we may, and unite our 
hearts in a purer worship ! 

Our minister was an aged man, tall, with 
a stately person and serious face. He wore 
small-clothes, and I greatly admired his 
long black silk stockings and silver knee- 
buckles as he went up the pulpit-stairs. He 
had considerable reputation as a theologian ; 
but I was too young to feel much interest 
in the sermon, and devised different methods 
of whiling away the time, of which tracing 
the carved leaves and balls on the edge of 
the sounding-board was a favourite one. 

At long intervals the venerable pastor 
called at our house, when he always patted 
me kindly on the head, asked me, "Who 
was the first man?" "Who was the first 
woman?" and " What was the chief end of 
man?" I looked upon him as a being of a 



48 TWENTY YEARS OE MY LIFE. 






superior order, and felt too much restraint 
to enjoy his presence; but my mother 
valued his visits beyond price. They al- 
ways talked long and seriously together; 
and before leaving he prayed with us, the 
family all standing reverentially. 

"When I was eight years old, a colleague 
was settled — a very elegant-looking man 
we thought him — from the city. How 
kindly he spoke to all the children when 
he visited the school or met us in the street, 
when the boys always took off their hats 
and bowed and the girls dropped bashful 
little curtesies ! What a sweet young wife 
he brought among us a few months after, 
whose delicate features and graceful man- 
ners made Susan and me think she was 
like the beautiful ladies of olden time, 
whom our father read about in books ! 
The sermons of the young minister began 
to fix my attention; for he sometimes drew 
vivid pictures from the life of Jesus, and 
spoke so tenderly of his great love for us 
that I often determined I would some time 
be his true disciple. Susan and I used to 
talk about these sermons and serious things 
as we sat at twilight on the rock beneath 



THE CHURCH AND SCHOOL. 49 



the old oak-tree (our cubby-house had 
gone: we had outgrown that now). We 
talked of dying, and wished we might go 
and live in one of the beautiful stars above 
us ; for we meant to become good before 
we died. There was no religious feeling in 
my heart, only a dreamy longing for some- 
thing bright and beautiful ; but I think 
Susan was more religiously inclined than I. 
Our aged pastor died; and, as from month 
to month the young servant of Christ told 
us of the Saviour's love and besought us to 
give our hearts to him, I often wept ; but 
it was a passing emotion. Susan wept; but 
she prayed also, — which I never did, unless 
an occasional formal repetition of the Lord's 
Prayer to quiet my conscience could be 
called pitying; but even then I knew that 
was no true prayer in God's sight. 

We received less direct religious instruc- 
tion at home than some children. There 
were no Sunday-schools; and when we had 
recited the Catechism our Sunday's task 
was over. But in time Ave began to com- 
mit hymns and passages of Scripture to 
memory and repeat them sometimes to my 
father, but oftener to my mother. These, 



50 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



not being exactly required of us, but al- 
ways gaining an approving word or smile 
from our parents, became a favourite em- 
ployment; and the beautiful hymns and 
psalms then committed abide with me yet, 
and have been a solace in many a weary 
hour when the cares of life were pressing 
heavily upon me. 

Our school-experience was similar to that 
of most others of that day. I was fond of 
study, but very fond of play too, and quite 
as proud of my proficiency in wrestling, 
climbing and skating as in the studies 
within-doors. We w^ere carried through 
the usual routine of studies, — first, Web- 
ster's Spelling-Book, then Murray's Gram- 
mar and Cumming's Geography, (in which 
the United States were bounded on the 
west by the Mississippi River and all be- 
yond was designated as "unexplored re- 
gions,") then Pike's Arithmetic, and after- 
wards Daboll's. These I made myself fully 
master of: at least, I could repeat every 
word verbatim. I could also declaim in a 
powerful manner, from Scott's Lessons, 
"My voice is still for war/' and 



THE CHURCH AND SCHOOL. 51 



" My name is Norval. 
On the Grampian hills my father feeds his flock," 

as well as the long speech of Cicero before 
the Roman Senate against Cams Verres. 

These, I think, were all my school-accom- 
plishments, except writing, which was taught 
in the winter evenings. History, natural phi- 
losophy and chemistry were unknown then 
in common schools; and I often heard my 
mother regret her inability to send me for 
a term or two to an academy in a flourish- 
ing town near us where they were taught. 
But we only just contrived to live ; and such 
an unnecessary expense was not to be 
thought of. My father had but little energy, 
and, being somewhat of an invalid, was 
unable to do more than cut the hay on his 
little farm and cultivate a small patch of 
corn and another of potatoes. 

The chief reliance of the family for main- 
tenance was on the dairy. We kept six 
cows; and the labour of this — except driving 
the cows to and from pasture and milking 
them, which fell to my share — devolved 
upon my mother, assisted by Susan when 
she was old enough to help. There was an 
old debt due upon the farm; and, energetic 



52 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



and economical as my mother was, we could 
never quite discharge it. Her utmost efforts 
only paid the interest and a small portion 
of the principal each year. By the time I 
was ten years old, being a well-grown lad, 
I was occasionally hired out to do little 
jobs (chores he called them) to a farmer in 
the neighbourhood; and the little gained 
in that way was scrupulously saved to buy 
me a new cap or a pair of shoes or warm 
waistcoat. I never considered this a hard- 
ship, but felt a glow of pride as I carried 
my hard-earned wages to my mother and 
saw her approving smile and heard her 
say, "You are getting to be a great comfort 
to us, Allen." 

It was an honest pride growing out of a 
consciousness of ability to do something for 
myself, and a feeling which the indolent 
children of wealth might well covet, for it 
is a luxury known only to the labouring 
poor. 



PLANS. 53 



CHAPTEE V. 

PLANS. 

The years passed by, and I had grown up 
into a tall, vigorous lad of sixteen, full of 
animal spirits, and full, too, of the restless- 
ness of a boy's nature. The individual 
character (the me, as the transcendentalists 
would say) had been developing amid these 
influences, gradually and silently. 

I was far less happy now than when I 
was a child; for, though I was still most 
devotedly attached to my mother and little 
sister, (as I still called Susan,) a feeling of 
discontent was growing up within me. I 
began to look with contempt on the brown 
cottage and the little farm. The old child- 
ish wish to become a great man, whose 
exploits should be heralded abroad, had 
not died out, but had gained strength till it 
pervaded my whole soul, colouring every 

5* 



54 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



plan and hope. "When I read of mighty 
warriors, I longed to fight, to become world- 
renowned as they were, to have my name 
go down to all future generations ; and — 
foolish boy that I was — I fancied I felt 
within me the strength of purpose and 
energy of soul requisite to such a career. 
When I read of self-denying men who had 
given every thing that was dear to them on 
earth, and even life itself, for their country 
and religion, my heart glowed with a desire 
to be a patriot and a martyr, — to suffer and 
die for my principles ; and I fancied I could 
do it heroically, if only the occasion offered. 
Poor, ignorant, self-conceited boy! It is 
amusing now, and yet sad enough, to recall 
those fancies and contrast them with what 
has actually been done " on the world's 
great field of battle." Yet such desires 
were not all folly. They were aspirations — 
blind and absurd enough, to-be-sure, but 
still aspirations — for something better than 
a mere animal existence. I confided some 
of the most modest of my wishes to my 
mother; and, instead of checking the cur- 
rent entirely, she wisely sought to divert it 
into other channels. Longfellow's " Psalm 



PLANS. 55 

of Life" had not then been written; but 
something akin to its spirit imbued my 
mother's counsels. She used to speak to 
me of life as a field of labour and of con- 
flict, in which I was to work and war under 
the eye of God, and to tell me that the 
great victory to be won was over my own 
evil propensities and over sin and misery in 
every form and place. "To do the work of 
life well," she would say, "is not to acquire 
riches or fame, but just to do what God 
requires of you in the circumstances in 
which he has seen fit to place you." 

Such calm and quiet views of life were 
not at all agreeable to me, — not at all in 
accordance with the fiery fervour of my 
desires, which were burning to overleap all 
barriers to earthly distinction and fretting 
at every obstacle which lay in my path. I 
longed to be something in the world, — to 
stand out prominently before my fellows 
and to be acknowledged as their superior. 
And " in the heat of youthful blood" I cared 
little for the peace and joy which come 
from God only. 

I found fault with my obscure birth, my 
poverty, my want of opportunities for self- 



56 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



improvement. I saw sons of rich men fit- 
ting for college, whose minds, according to 
my modest estimate, were not half so capa- 
ble as mine of improving these advantages ; 
and I considered it unjust. I murmured 
against God and the allotments of his pro- 
vidence, which chained me down to a life 
of toil. I seldom ventured to utter these 
complaints in my mother's presence ; but I 
almost frightened poor little Susan by the 
vehemence with which I poured such feel- 
ings into her ear. 

Nothing could be more absurd than the 
visionary schemes I carried about in my 
heated brain ; and no boy who had lived a 
less secluded life could have been so igno- 
rant and foolish. Susan, with her loving 
heart, would try to comfort though she 
could not understand me* 

" Are we not happy, Allen?" she would 
say, fixing her tearful eyes affectionately on 
my face. "Has not God been very good to 
us? What a dear home we have, and such 
a kind father and mother, who are willing 
to do any thing for us !" But her gentle 
words were like rose-leaves thrown on the 



PLANS. 57 

foaming stream, which whirled them heed- 
lessly along. 

"Sappy! Do you call it being happy to 
drudge on here forever in this mean, mise- 
rable way, — buried alive among these old 
black hills and working like a slave — for 
what? Just to get bread to eat! I don't 
mean to do it. I mean to go out into the 
world and make something of myself. It 
is well enough for girls to stay here, who 
can do housework and sew and knit, and 
who haven't spirit enough to wish for any 
thing better; but Jsha'n't do it." 

I was the same cruel brother who pushed 
his little sister ofi' the steps, — though the 
pain I caused her now was doubtless more 
acute. That gentle sister, refined and deli- 
cate in person and in all her tastes, who 
worked on from day to day almost beyond 
her strength in the performance of the 
homeliest household tasks, never complain- 
ing, but always looking bright and speak- 
ing cheerily, — how superior she was to me, 
disdaining in my selfishness to do the work 
God had given me, and thus adding to the 
burdens of others ! And yet I looked down 



58 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



upon her, — the pure-minded, warm-hearted 
child! 

Susan had at this time received into her 
soul a new principle, — the love of God, and 
the desire to do his will ; and it gave her a 
sweet peace, to which mine was an utter 
stranger. She had spoken to me of the 
blessed Friend who had forgiven her sins 
and taught her to draw near to him in love 
and faith, and had sought to make me a 
partaker in her new joys; but I would not 
listen. I felt almost angry with her for 
having feelings into which I could not 
enter. A barrier seemed to have risen up 
between us, separating her soul from my 
impatient, selfish, guilty one ; and, though 
m my inmost heart I knew she was 
right and I wrong, I chose to treat her as 
an inferior, incapable of understanding my 
loftier aspirations. She was scarcely more 
than a child; but her heart had been en- 
larged by the indwelling of the Holy Spirit 
into a nobleness and expansion which mine 
was too mean and low in its desires to com- 
prehend. Yet I had manliness enough to 
feel grieved when I saw her weeping at my 



PLANS. 59 

injustice; and I put my arms caressingly 
around her. 

"I did not mean to grieve you," I said. 
"I am very wicked, I believe; but then, 
Susan, I am so unhappy I cannot help it." 

"I was foolish to cry," she said, with a 
bright smile; "but I do not love to hear 
you talk so. Oh, Allen, how I wish I could 
do something to make you happy! I wish 
you could go away from home, — though it 
would be sad enough living here without 
you ; but I know you are different from 
other boys and would make something if 
you could only have the opportunity. I 
wish I was an elder sister and could earn 
money to educate you, as some sisters have 
done." 

"I wish there would come another war," 
I said. " I would enlist to-morrow. I 
would kill the British, — hundreds of them, 
— and get to be a general, — a great, glorious 
general like Washington or Jackson." (For 
the exploits of the latter were then so recent 
as to make him the object of fireside and 
newspaper eulogy.) 

" Oh, I wouldn't like you to kill people, 
Allen. I don't think it can be right. Only 



60 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



think of shooting a man like yourself and 
seeing him fall down at your feet all bloody 
and cold and dead!" 

" But then in war it's so different. It's 
right to kill men then, hundreds and thou- 
sands of them, — it's glorious, — it's a vic- 
tory! and everybody admires and praises 
it, and they sing songs and have celebra- 
tions. Oh, I should like to be a soldier! I 
would certainly go and fight if there was a 
war." 

"But I do not believe father and mother 
would approve of it." 

"I would go if they didn't. I would 
run away in the night and show that I had 
some spirit. Every man who becomes dis- 
tinguished has spirit enough to act for 
himself; and I mean to be brave and not 
fear any thing." 

It seems to me as if few boys at sixteen 
could have such absurd notions of courage 
and heroism as these ; but perhaps some do, 
and, like me, fancy that to resist the right- 
ful authority of parents and guardians is 
showing a brave and manly spirit. Susan 
— inferior in years, and, as I then chose to 



PLANS. 61 

think, in knowledge — had much more cor- 
rect ideas of right and wrong. 

"But, oh, you would not do that, Allen," 
she said : " it would be wicked to run away 
from home. And what if you should, and 
then get killed?" And the child's tender 
heart overflowed at her eyes. 

" Oh, I shouldn't get killed. Great war- 
riors never do. They rush right into the 
very thickest of the battle and always come 
off victorious. Sometimes their horses are 
shot under them; but they mount, and rush 
forward again. They are never killed, or 
scarcely ever; and, if they are, it is such a 
glorious death ! Don't you remember how 
"Wolfe was killed on the plains of Abraham ? 
Oh, who would not die a death like that?" 

"So my boy would be a soldier and die 
a glorious death ?" said my mother, who had 
entered the room unperceived and now 
stood beside me. 

I blushed ; for somehow my heroic visions 
always grew less brilliant in the clear atmo- 
sphere which surrounded her. " But does 
he see no heroism in overcoming his own 
wild and wricked passions, no greatness in 
sacrificing his own inclinations to obey his 



62 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



parents ? I wish you may be a soldier," she 
said, laying her hand tenderly on my head, 
— " a soldier and a hero, and win the most 
glorious of victories." She was silent; but, 
as her hand rested there, I knew a prayer 
was in her heart for me. 

"I am sorry to hear you talk so foolishly," 
she added, after a pause. "You are old 
enough to distinguish real from false cour- 
age, and to know that no man ever became 
heroic till he could control himself, — a les- 
son you have yet to learn, I fear. The 
sooner you take this first step towards be- 
coming independent and courageous the 
better." 

"But, mother," I said, "you cannot un- 
derstand me. I am not a woman, but a 
man ; and I cannot be contented to settle 
down here and live a stupid, humdrum life 
year after year. I could not do it: it would 
kill me!" I said, vehemently. 

"I know you have a restless tempera- 
ment, and have long foreseen that the time 
would come when you would long to leave 
the quiet nest which has sheltered you and 
the hearts which have loved you so well. 
But I had hoped you would be willing to 



PLANS. 63 

stay with us a little longer. The years 
have passed so swiftly I cannot feel that 
yon are really grown up to a man's stature. 
To me you still seem my little playful boy, 
my laughing Allen, who loved to stand by 
me and hear stories before he went to bed. 

" But I hope I am not selfish. I wish to 
have that done which is best for you, if we 
can ascertain what it is. But you must do 
nothing rashly, my son. It is no trifling 
matter to decide upon an employment for 
life. I believe there is a work for every 
human being to do in this world,— a special 
work designed for him, which no one else 
can do so well as he." 

"But how can one know what his work 
is?" I said. "I'm sure it can't always be 
easy to tell." 

"It can be ascertained partly by the cir- 
cumstances in which God has placed us and 
partly by the capacities he has given us. 
There is sometimes so strong a bias towards 
a particular pursuit as to point that out 
quite clearly as the one to be selected ; but 
it is not always the case. There is always, 
however, one mode of knowing what it is 
intended we shall do: the soul that asks 



64 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



light and guidance from on high is sure to 
receive it. Oh, Allen!" she said, with an 
emotion I had never seen her manifest 
before, " if I could only see you form- 
ing your plans in reference to God's will 
and not to your own selfish enjoyment, I 
should not feel a single anxiety about you. 
If He was your guide, I would let you go 
forth from me and the restraints of your 
quiet home into the world cheerfully ; but 
with your impetuous passions, all unre- 
strained by religious principle, I do fear for 
you ! How can I let you go from me," she 
said, with another clasp, as if she would 
bind me to her very heart, " until you are 
united to a better Friend and Guide ? — you, 
my first-born, my only son, my precious, 
precious child !" 

I could not speak. Did my mother love 
me so, — my quiet, gentle, self-possessed mo- 
ther, who I had sometimes fancied was ra- 
ther cold and stern ? 

"We will think upon this and talk it over 
again," she said. "It is autumn now, and 
by spring you will have fixed upon some 
plan ; and when the birds and flowers come 
we will let you fly forth from your cage." 



PLANS. 65 

She meant to speak cheerily ; but there was 
an undertone of sadness in her voice which 
touched my heart. 

"Dear mother," I said, clinging to her 
side as I used to when a child, " I feel as if 
it would be hard to leave the dear old home, 
after all. I will not go. I will stay here 
and take care of you and father when you 
get old. I will not be so selfish as to think 
only of my own enjoyment." 

"I want you to be unselfish," she said, 
with one of her bright smiles ; " but it 
does not follow you should always stay 
here. I do not think you would find scope 
for your energies on this small farm. I 
wish that you should have the faculties 
God has given you thoroughly developed, 
and that you should make the most you 
can of yourself. Have you ever thought, 
Allen, what you would like best to do,-— 
to what business you were best adapted?" 

How her calm, sensible words put to 
flight a host of my boyish fancies ! I was 
almost afraid to tell her what had been the 
cherished dream of my boyhood; but I 
found courage at last to say, "I have always 
longed to be a soldier, and nothing else." 

6* 



66 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



"I think this is because you have formed 
an entirely wrong idea of what a soldier's 
life is. You have looked only on the bright 
and alluring side; and there is a most re- 
pulsive and terrible one. I do not believe 
you would like to spend your whole life in 
killing people, even if you could, — in mak- 
ing widows and orphans." 

"But war brings blessings. The great 
general who achieves a victory frees his 
country from oppression and gives it liberty 
as well as glory," I said, enthusiastically. 

" He sometimes does, and sometimes ac- 
complishes just the reverse." 

"But J would fight only for freedom and 
in a just cause," I said. 

"Fortunately, our country is in posses- 
sion of her freedom already; and every 
good citizen who quietly lives an honest, 
industrious and godly life does more for 
the glory of his country than a soldier." 

"But, if a war should come, ought we 
not all to fight ? Would you not let me go 
then?" 

"If such a terrible calamity as a war 
should ever befall our country, it will then 
be time enough to decide what your duty is. 



PLANS. 67 

Enough, have always been found to rally to 
her standard in the hour of need. I would 
have you a true patriot, Allen, — an ardent 
lover of your country; and then you will 
be always willing to do what is for her best 
good in all emergencies. But for you to be 
a soldier is impossible. We keep no stand- 
ing army in time of peace, and only a small 
number are allowed to enter our military 
academies and receive the thorough train- 
ing required to make a good officer; and 
you, who have no influential friends, can- 
not hope to be one of those few. I fancy 
your impatient spirit would hardly brook 
the severe restraints of a military school, 
even if you could obtain a place in one ; 
but, as I have said, it is simply impossible. 
So that bright dream must be given up, my 
son. You must replace it by something 
more real." 

I sighed, for it had been a bright dream ; 
and, though I could never have expected it 
would be actually fulfilled, I had allowed 
myself to live an ideal life ; and when my 
hands had been busy with the hoe or rake 
my imagination had taken me into camps 
and battle-fields, where I had seen waving 



68 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 






banners, glistening epaulettes and nodding 
plumes, and heard the music of drums and 
bugles, the roaring of cannon and the 
shouts of victory. Like him of whom the 
poet afterwards sang, — 

"In dreams, through camp and court I bore 
The trophies of a conqueror, 

In dreams, the song of triumph heard;" 

and so fascinating had these dreams been 
that the awakening to the realities of life 
which lay around me was far from pleasant. 

To the question which still returned, 
What occupation in life should I choose? 
I ventured to make another answer. 

"I think I should like to go to college, 
if I could, and get an education." 

"If your means were sufficient," replied 
my mother, " perhaps I should like that, 
though I am far from feeling that a profes- 
sional man is of necessity the most useful 
and happy; but I do not think your bent 
is so strong in that direction as to point it 
out for you when such obstacles lie in the 
way." 

"But many a poor boy has struggled 
through an education without help ; and I 



PLANS. 69 

have heard it said that such make the finest 
men." 

" Yes, that is true ; but it is those who 
have an intense thirst for study as well as 
great perseverance and energy. Such, Na- 
ture singles out for students by the gifts 
she has bestowed ; and of such we feel al- 
most certain that they will succeed. If I 
thought you were one of these, I might 
advise you to hazard every thing in the 
pursuit of learning ; but I do not think you 
are. You are only a medium scholar, Al- 
len, nothing remarkable.' ' 

" But I am fond of books. Few, I think, 
are more so." 

" Yes ; but it is of books which give you 
amusement You have a vivid imagination 
which delights in strange scenes and stir- 
ring incidents ; but you have no fondness for 
close, protracted study, very little taste for 
mathematics or works on science, — for any 
thing, in fact, which taxes your mind very 
severely. I have watched the unfolding of 
your mental powers closely, and I think I 
am right in the conclusion that you would 
make only a second or third rate scholar, — 
one of those of whom we say, ' He would 



70 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



have made an excellent business-man, but 
he is an inferior minister or lawyer. What 
a pity he mistook his calling !' Yes, I 
think you are essentially active in your 
temperament, not studious. Am I not 
right?" 

How I winced under these remarks ! 
How mortifying to my pride to be so 
quietly set down among ordinary minds ! 
And, to make it doubly galling, I felt in 
my inmost soul that this valuation of my 
powers was substantially correct. I was 
too much pained to answer at once, and 
my mother continued : — 

"But, even if it were otherwise, — if I 
thought your's was one of the few minds 
that make their mark on the world, — I 
should hesitate in advising you to attempt 
a collegiate course. It is a weary struggle 
for one to enter upon without friends or 
resources ; and it too often happens that by 
the time a poor student is able to commence 
his professional career he is broken down 
in health and burdened with debt, so that 
his future life is obliged to be a sad struggle 
to rise above the difficulties which beset 
him. I know there are brilliant exceptions 



PLANS. 71 

to this ; but of how many is it time ! Do 
you feel disappointed, my child ? Do you 
feel as if your mother judged you unfairly, 
— undervalued your capacities?" 

"I don't know," I said, sorrowfully: 
"perhaps you are right. And yet, mother, 
I do feel a desire to be something in the 
world, and it does seem to me as if I had 
ability of some kind. I don't believe I was 
made to drudge all my life just to get my 
daily bread." 

I could scarcely keep back the bitter tears 
which welled up in my heart. 

" No, my dear child, you certainly were 
not. You were made to be useful and 
happy in God's world ; and you will be if 
it is not your own fault. You have been 
richly gifted in some respects, — unless," she 
added, with a smile, " I have been blinded 
by a mother's partiality. Examine your 
own capacities and character for yourself. 
Ascertain what faculties you possess and 
what is the best use you can make of them. 
Look at the subject soberly. Hitherto you 
have been dreaming of impossibilities, like 
a child. Now rouse yourself to the higher 
work of determining what you can do, what 



72 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



yon ought to do and to be, and, like a man, 
meet whatever difficulties lie in your way. 
The actual duties of life are worthy of all 
the enthusiasm you have been expending 
on imaginary ones. I hope to see you a 
man your mother can honestly be proud of; 
but you must not fall into the mistake of 
supposing your respectability or happiness 
depends upon any particular employment- 
or position in society. It is you who must 
make the place, not the place you. 

"But it is late, my son, and your mother 
has preached a long sermon for her. Think 
upon these things quietly and prayerfully, 
— yes, prayerfully, Allen. You need God's 
guidance. He offers it. Do not reject it. 
Do not go forth to the work of life without 
taking His blessing with you, my child, — 
my beloved child !" 

There was a tear in her eye as she said 
"good-night;" and my mother did not often 
weep. 

When I went to my room that night my 
heart was full of conflicting emotions. I was 
a passionate, restless boy, seeing things 
only dimly, and yet with some faint glim- 
merings of light breaking in. Wounded 






PLANS. 73 

vanity, a desire to prove myself superior to 
what I was considered to be, struggled with 
a tender regard for my mother and with a 
consciousness that I was really weak and 
ignorant, without any guiding purpose or 
proper motive. I saw that I had floated 
along thus far on the current of life without 
thinking of the port to which I was bound. 
"I will rouse myself," I said. "I will pre- 
pare for the duties and struggles of life and 
meet them like a man." I think I prayed 
with more sincerity and earnestness for 
God's blessing that night than I had done 
for years; and my last thought was, "I will 
not disappoint my mother's hopes. I w T ill 
become truly good." Alas for the resolu- 
tions that are based on an occasional prayer 
or the shifting sands of human strength! 
Little knew I of the depths of my own 
heart or how thoroughly it needed renova- 
tion ! 

From that time I continued more thought- 
ful, entering indeed upon all the rustic 
sports of our village with the keenest relish 
as before, but nourishing within me, at the 
same time, better desires and more manly 
aims. I wished for another conversation 

7 



74 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



with my mother ; but no opportunity for it 
offered. Indeed, I rather think she shunned 
it purposely, wishing to throw me on my- 
self, that roy mind might act more inde- 
pendently. 

When I talked to my father of my plans, 
he contented himself with saying, " Well, I 
hope you will make something of yourself, 
Allen. I used to hope I should ; but some- 
how life has slipped aw^ay and I'm pretty 
much what I was when I was a boy. My 
fine plans never got carried out. But per- 
haps it's just as well. I've had a pretty 
comfortable life of it, on the whole." 

There was a sadness in his voice which 
seemed at variance with his closing words. 
My dear, kind father ! Years have passed 
away since I looked upon his placid fea- 
tures, and very sweet and precious are the 
memories of his kindness and affection ; 
but when I recall his life, and remember 
what he was, I cannot but feel that his 
talents were never fully improved. There 
was a want of perseverance, an indisposi- 
tion to effort, about him, which prevented 
him from becoming any thing more than 






PLANS. 75 

the fond father and easy, accommodating 
neighbour. Yet he had fine perceptions 
of what was noblest and best, and, I doubt 
not, in earlier life, cherished aspirations 
which were never carried into deeds. But 
peace to his memory ! The green sod which 
covers him has been watered by many 
honest and affectionate tears ; for all who 
knew him loved him while living and 
mourned him when dead. 

"You must earn your own living, my 
boy/' he added. "I wish I had more to 
give you; but it has always been a hard 
struggle to live, and you will have to take 
care of yourself some way." 

" I'm not sorry for that, father," I said. 
" I am strong and healthy, and I would 
not like to lie down idly upon other people. 
These hands" (swinging them above my 
head) " are stout ones, and they shall work 
out a fortune for me some day. I am glad 
I have got to make my own way in the 
world. I can — I will — make a man you 
will not be ashamed of, — you, nor my mo- 
ther either." 

"That's right, Allen: that's your mo- 



76 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



ther's spirit. She was always braver than 
I. Be careful to follow her advice. Few 
sons have such a mother as your's: she's 
one among a thousand; and her counsels 
will be your safest guide." 



DISCONTENT. 77 



CHAPTER V. 

DISCONTENT. 

The more carefully I examined myself the 
more sure I felt that something was radically 
wrong. I was selfish in all my plans; and 
I knew I ought to live for the good of 
others. I knew God had created me, had 
given me every faculty I possessed, and 
that he rightly claimed from me love and 
obedience to his commands. I knew that 
his requirements were all right and just, — 
nay, more, I believed that loving and serv-. 
ing him was the only road to true happi- 
ness ; and yet I was conscious of an unwilling- 
ness to love and serve him. This strange 
contradiction between reason and inclina- 
tion sometimes distressed me; but oftener 
I lost sight of it ; and, though it lay like a 
dull, heavy weight upon my soul, crushing 
out of it all true life and joy, I talked and 



78 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



laughed and thought of other things, and 
considered myself happy. Yet at the bot- 
tom of this superficial enjoyment I was 
really miserable, — or I should have been, had 
I dared to look myself and my condition 
fully in the face. There was a restless 
craving for something beyond my reach, — 
for some unattainable good which would 
satisfy my longings and give me peace. I 
had no distinct idea what it was I needed. 
Sometimes I thought if my lot in life were 
different I should be happy; and then the 
old discontent and fret-fulness came back, 
and I was cross and irritable to all around 
me, blaming them for the misery which 
my own selfish heart occasioned. 

One Sunday, about this time, I heard a 
sermon from the venerable Dr. C. which 
impressed me greatly. He often preached 
for us, having married his wife from our 
little village ; but, though I had always 
admired his eloquence, I had never felt the 
power of truth as I did that day. The 
influences of the Divine Spirit must have 
accompanied the word preached and made 
it powerful. 

The sermon was from the words, " Thou 






DISCONTENT. 79 



shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy 
heart, and with all thy soul, and with all 
thy mind, and with all thy strength;" and it 
set forth forcibly the duty of consecrating 
ourselves w T holly and forever to God. The 
reasonableness and beauty of the require- 
ment were fully shown, as well as its adapted- 
ness to elevate the human soul to its highest 
capacity for wisdom, purity and bliss, and also 
the sinfulness of those who refused thus to 
devote themselves to God's service. I had 
never before so clearly seen the nature of 
God's requirements. I saw that he asked 
of me nothing but to love him, who was 
infinitely lovely, — him, who is the source 
of all goodness and blessedness. It was no 
arbitrary law, but one proceeding from 
love; and obedience to it would make me 
— even me — like the angels above, — loving 
and lovely, hoty and blessed. But, seeing 
this, did my heart joyfully devote itself to 
him? Knowing that his service would be 
one of infinite blessedness, did my soul 
with all its powers leap quickly forth in 
glad obedience ? It has been said that mo- 
tives placed before a human soul must com- 
pel it to act in accordance with them. I 



80 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



know nothing of metaphysics. I only know 
that my soul could stand in the full blaze 
of motives powerful as God's love and my 
own eternal well-being and not yield to 
them. Whatever other human souls may 
be, mine was thus unreasonable and guilty; 
and from my own bitter experience is 
drawn my full conviction of the want of 
holiness in the heart of man. God's word 
asserts it; and I feel it to be true when I 
look at my own. 

I shut myself up in my room that after- 
noon when I came home from church, not 
choosing to converse with any one. After 
an early tea, I wandered forth into the 
woods back of our house. It was an Oc- 
tober evening. The leaves were falling 
quietly, one by one, at my feet. They had 
lived their life. Their work was done, and 
now they were passing away peacefully to 
moulder upon the earth. By-and-by I too 
should pass away. My work would be done, 
and I should lie down and moulder into 
dust. But not as the leaf passed should I 
go away. I had a soul that would live for- 
ever; and I was accountable for the right 
use of all the faculties God had given me. 



DISCONTENT. 81 



This seemed a terrible truth to me. To be 
obliged to live forever ; to bear about with me 
the burden of responsibility ; never to be able 
to shake it off', — never, in this life nor in the 
next, — never, through all the ceaseless ages 
of eternity! How I wished I had been 
made a flower, a leaf, without any accounta- 
bility ! 

The faint note of a quail was heard in 
the distant woods. It had lingered be- 
hind its fellows, and there was a quivering 
in its note — a tremulous, long-drawn trill — 
which is only heard late in autumn from 
some lone lingerer in the forest. To me it 
sounded like a wail. Was that poor bird 
sad and weary too ? Yet he had no soul. 
I wished I was in his place : then I could 
live out my appointed time and return to 
nothingness; but now I could never do 
that,- — never! So intense was the pain 
caused by this conviction that I groaned 
aloud. I accused God of being unjust in 
having made me thus. Why had he im- 
posed upon me a life I never asked for,-— a 
life I could never be rid of, but must drag 
on through this terrible forever ? A soft 
voice whispered, " It need not be a terrible 



82 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



forever to any. To some it will be a joy- 
ful one. "Why not to you?" But I felt 
that it would not. I knew my soul was 
not in harmony with the glorious Maker of 
the universe, and that therefore I must be 
miserable. I knew he would keep me 
within his power. I longed to be free from 
it, and could not. How could I be other- 
wise than wretched ? 

How dreary every thing looked to me! 
The brown stalks which had once been 
bright with leaves and flowers crackled 
beneath my feet. The dismal winds moaned 
through the pines, telling of coming storms 
and desolations. The black clouds moved 
in frowning masses over the gray sky. All 
was gloomy. Nowhere in the world with- 
out, nor in my own soul, could I behold a 
ray of light. I had been told a thousand 
times of the way of salvation. I knew 
perfectly well that sinners could be saved 
if they forsook their sins and went to Jesus 
and asked forgiveness; but there was no 
satisfaction to me in the thought. I was a 
sinner. I knew that ; yet I did not feel 
sorrow for my sins. It seemed to me I 
could not repent, — that I should always be a 



DISCONTENT. 83 



sinner. How could I be any thing else? 
In my misery I again impiously turned to 
God and accused him of injustice. Why 
had he not made me so that I could not 
sin, — so that I must love him ? 

In the indulgence of such miserable 
thoughts I wandered on till dark, and then 
turned homewards. Not feeling like seeing 
the family, I complained of being tired, and 
went immediately to my own room, — the 
pleasant little room where I had lain in 
childhood and had often looked through 
the looped-up curtain at the smiling stars. 
Now there were few stars. I sat by the 
window for hours, letting my thoughts 
drift wildly; for my soul was a perfect 
chaos of conflicting elements, — a chaos over 
which no spirit of light and love brooded. 

At length I closed the window, and, 
wearied with the violence of my emotions, 
fell asleep. And the next morning? Why, 
the next morning, strange as it may seem, 
these feelings had all passed away. It had 
rained during the night. The clear blue 
sky shone brightly overhead ; all nature 
was gay in her autumnal robes of gold and 



84 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



crimson, and my heart beat in unison with 
the bright scene. 

What had become of the misery of the 
previous night? I knew not, nor cared to 
ask. I remembered it as an oppressive 
dream I was glad to have shaken off, and 
went down-stairs whistling a merry tune. 



A VISITOR. 85 



CHAPTER VII. 

A VISITOR. 

"When I entered the breakfast-room — 
which was also our kitchen, sitting-room 
and dining-room — I found the family dis- 
cussing an expected arrival. " Cousin 
John" was coming; and, though we had 
plenty of cousins who came to see us, a 
visit from Cousin John was an event of no 
common interest. He had never been in 
Hillbury, but we had heard much about 
him, — more, however, from our neighbours 
than from our parents; and they had al- 
ways represented him as a most remarkable 
man, who had been wonderfully successful 
in all his plans and was now a very wealthy 
merchant. He was my father's cousin, and 
had left his home in the country in early 
life, and by some means (I never heard 
exactly how) had become very rich, and 



86 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



was now living in New York city in great 
splendour, as some of our neighbours said 
who had seen him. 

Susan and I had often made him the 
topic of private conversation ; and, putting 
together the little items which had reached 
us, our vivid imaginations colouring them 
all, we had elevated Cousin John, our rich 
New York relative, (our only one, indeed, 
who was not positively poor,) into a para- 
gon of splendour and elegance. I had 
sometimes fancied my mother unusually 
silent when his name was introduced; but 
it might be only a fancy. At any rate, as 
he was coming to Hillbury on business, my 
father had asked him to stay w T ith us, and 
he was to be with us that afternoon. 

"I am so glad Cousin John is coming to- 
day," exclaimed Susan, at the breakfast- 
table. "I have always wanted to see him 
more than any one else." 

"But suppose you should not like him?" 
suggested my mother. 

" Oh, I almost know I shall ! Martha 
Jones has seen him; and she says he is a 
very fine gentleman, who dresses beauti- 
fully and is very superior. You know he 



A VISITOK. 87 



is from the city, mother. And don't you 
expect I shall like a gentleman who comes 
all the way from New York city?" 

My mother smiled, and said she was sure 
there were some in New York city who 
would not be at all agreeable to her. 

"But I think he will be," said Susan. 
"At any rate, I am very curious to see 
what a city-gentleman is like. I have never 
seen one yet ; and now that one is coming 
under our very roof I think it is highly 
proper to feel a good deal excited about it." 

" I am afraid he will think this is a pretty 
poor place," I said, — " his own home is such 
a splendid one." 

"Oh, I hope not," said Susan. "I shall 
sweep the front room till there isn't one 
speck of dust left in it, and rub the chairs 
and tables till they shine ; and I am going 
to fill the large glass mug with laurel and 
the pretty maple-leaves, which are as bright 
as flowers. After dinner I shall dress my- 
self in my new plaid frock, and mother 
will put on her best cap : sha'n't you, mo- 
ther? And I think we shall look very 
nice, Allen, for all you shake your head so 
doubtfully." 



88 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



" But he lias such splendid furniture at 
home. Martha Jones said she felt almost 
afraid to step on the carpet when she called 
there, the flowers on it looked so bright 
and so like real roses." 

"Well," said Susan, with a little sigh, 
" we can't do any thing more than our best 
for him; and if he isn't contented I shall 
be sorry. I hope he won't give himself airs 
and look down on every thing he sees." 

"He certainly will not if he is a gentle- 
man" said my mother, quietly. 

"We separated, each going to his daily 
task, and each, I suppose, thinking a good 
deal about Cousin John : at least, I did. I 
felt very anxious, and yet half afraid, to see 
him; for, having never been much from 
home, I attached an undue importance to 
every thing that came from abroad. I was 
very sensitive about the impression I should 
make on this remarkable stranger, and 
very much afraid I should commit some 
blunder and be looked upon as a green, 
awkward country-boy. 

Susan appeared at the front door that 
afternoon by two o'clock, attired in her 
new dress, whose soft colours of blue and 



A VISITOR. 89 



brown set off her fair complexion to advan- 
tage. She was looking down the street, 
though the stage could not be seen coming 
round the corner before five o'clock at 
the soonest. I was in the garden, digging 
potatoes in my linsey-woolsey frock, and 
was by no means so well prepared as she 
for company ; and when she called to me 
to know how soon I thought he would be 
coming, I answered, rather shortly, — 

"Not these three hours yet, I hope." 

"What must we call him, Allen, when 
we speak to him ? Must we say ' Cousin 
John' ?" she inquired, coming to the garden- 
fence. 

"I'm sure I don't know. All I care for 
is to get off this old frock before he comes. 
I guess he wouldn't like to have me cousin- 
ing him in this rig." 

"But he will have to see you in it to- 
morrow, if he doesn't to-day : so what's the 
difference?" said Susan, laughing merrily. 

"Oh, 'first impressions are everything,' 
Aunt Sally says." 

I laughed too ; but I felt inwardly an- 
noyed. It was true I should have to dig po- 
tatoes to-morrow and wear my old clothes ; 



90 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



and no doubt Cousin John would look 
down upon and despise me. Why was I 
obliged to work so hard, while he could 
wear broadcloth every day and live like a 
gentleman, without ever soiling his hands ? 
The old pride and bitterness began to rise. 
I knew mother would say, "If he was a 
true gentleman he would think none the 
less of me for working and dressing accord- 
ing to my work;" but I knew better. Did 
not even the clerks in our village store feel 
themselves above me, just because they 
didn't have to soil their clothes by work- 
ing? How much more a city merchant, 
then? It did not occur to me to ask if 
the clerks were gentlemen and their valua- 
tion of things and persons necessarily cor- 
rect. I only felt, as I went on digging, that 
I was an ill-used member of the human 
family; and I was very miserable, because 
very discontented with myself and my con- 
dition. 

About five o'clock I heard the distant 
rumbling of the stage-coach, and imme- 
diately rushed out of the garden and hid 
myself in the corn-house till the dreaded 
visitor should have gone in. It must be 



A VISITOR. 91 



remembered that I was only in my seven- 
teenth year, and had not mingled with the 
world enough to know that in order to 
be respected one must respect himself. I 
peeped out through the cracks (manly boy 
that I was !) to get a glimpse of this formi- 
dable cousin. I saw my father standing at 
the gate in his shirt-sleeves and straw hat, 
as calm as if he had been in his Sunday- 
coat, and wondered he could be so self- 
possessed. It was but a single look that I 
caught of Cousin John ; but that convinced 
me he was even more showy and city-like 
in his appearance than I had expected. He 
had a pompous, bustling manner of getting 
down from the stage which I considered 
very elegant and imposing; for then to me 
"all was gold that glittered." 

I hurried to finish my day's work, care- 
fully keeping out of sight from the front- 
room windows, and then hastened into the 
kitchen, stepping softly lest I should be 
discovered. I heard a loud voice talking 
with my father in the best room, while my 
mother and Susan were in the kitchen busy 
about the tea. 

" Tell me, Susan, how do you like him ?" 



92 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



I said, drawing her out into the wood-shed 
and speaking in a whisper. 

"Oh, I don't know. He isn't at all like 
what I expected or like any one w r e know. 
But one thing I must tell you, Allen : we 
are not to call him 'Cousin John/ Mother 
says he is so much older than we are it is 
more proper to say 'Mr. Mather.' But you 
and I sha'n't have to say much to him. He 
talks to father all the time." 

" Hasn't he said any thing to you ?" 

"Only when he first came in: then he 
said, ' So this is your little daughter? Nice 
girl !' — as if I were about four years old." 

"Who would have thought of your being 
so proud, Sue ? It's all because you have got 
on a new dress!" And I laughed heartily. 

"Hush, children!" said my mother. "I 
want Susan to set the table ; and you will 
have no more time, Allen, than you will 
need to change your dress." 

I took special pains to brush my hair off 
my forehead in a striking manner and to 
tie my cravat and turn over my collar pro- 
perly ; but, after all, when I was obliged to 
enter the room I felt as coarse and clumsy 
and awkward as possible. 



A VISITOK. 93 



" This is my son Allen, Mr. Mather/' said 
my father. 

"Ah, indeed! How do you do? Why, 
I had no idea yon had such a tall son as 
this." And he shook my hand heartily and 
then continued his conversation with my 
father, speaking, as he had to me, in a very 
loud tone, as if we were all a little deaf. 

Colouring up to the roots of my hair, I 
awkwardly sought a seat, and, after having 
run against the table, settled down behind 
the door, — from which retreat, after I had 
recovered my self-composure, I examined 
Cousin John. He was a large, portly man 
of about forty, with a very full face and 
florid complexion. He was showily dressed, 
displaying a vast amount of shirt-bosom 
and yellow vest, across which an immensely 
heavy watch-chain was suspended so as to 
show to the best advantage. He gave one 
the idea of occupying a great deal of space. 
Our little room (which I had never thought 
of as small before) seemed to have shrunk 
into half its usual size now he was in it ; 
and he looked crowded, though seated in 
our largest rocking-chair. He spoke in a 
sharp, ringing tone, very loud and very die- 



94 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



tatorially, as if there were no appeal from 
his decisions. As I heard him enlarging 
upon Wall Street and brokers and stocks, 
and other business-matters of which I had 
never heard before, I felt as if he was the 
wisest of men, and as if all common know- 
ledge, such as mine, was of no kind of 
value. That he had little reverence for 
book-knowledge was evident from the con- 
temptuous glance he cast on our book-shelf 
as he passed out to tea. This little collec- 
tion had always been the pride of our hearts, 
and few had passed it without praise. 

"Books are well enough, I suppose, in a 
country place like this," he said, in a tone 
which implied that they were quite beneath 
his notice; "but men — men are what we 
ought to study. Till a person knows some- 
thing of men, — life, business-life, — he can't 
be really said to know any thing at all." 

How diminutive our little table looked as 
he drew himself up to it ! I think Susan 
felt as I did, — that "our best" (for we had 
our finest homespun damask and our nicest 
cups and saucers on, — which we had always 
thought quite elegant before) was something 
very despicable in his eyes. I felt intensely 



A VISITOR. 95 



mortified at our poverty, which seemed so 
much greater than it had ever seemed be- 
fore, and kept silently contrasting our little 
kitchen with his magnificent parlour, where 
the carpet looked too good to step upon! 
He had a condescending way of praising 
our country fare; and his "Ah, very nice! 
very nice!" evidently implied, "Very nice 
for you here in the country, but nothing to 
what I am accustomed to." 

I wondered how my mother could pre- 
serve her usual quiet manner. It seems 
strange to me now that I could not see how 
infinitely superior was her repose and gentle 
dignity to his pompous parade of manner, 
— how much more truly refined and elegant 
it was. Refinement, — elegance: how sadly 
are these words misunderstood and mis- 
applied ! I blush now to think of my folly ; 
but then it all appeared so differently. Even 
the yellow vest and the paraded watch-chain 
I considered marks of a gentleman ; and I 
gazed at them with envious admiration, — so 
foolish was I and ignorant of true gentility. 
All the apology I can make for this blind- 
ness is that I had never been from home, 
and had had no opportunity of learning that 



96 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



vulgarity and pretension are usually found 
together. 

That evening, as we sat in the best room, 
(we never dreamed of calling it the parlour 
in those days,) I was an eager listener to all 
Cousin John's narratives of city adventures 
and city follies. They were all exciting,— 
delightful to me, and I wondered how 
Susan could gape as she bent over her knit- 
ting-work. This kind of narrative appealed 
to the restless element in my nature and 
quickened it into new activity. I could not 
sleep that night for thinking of the charms 
of a city life, where all was bustle and ex- 
citement, and of the wretchedness of drag- 
ging out a stupid, dead-and-alive existence 
in the country. 

What had become of my serious convic- 
tions that God's law was good and had a 
rightful authority over my heart and life ? 
Were they all forgotten? No, not entirely: 
for, amid all the brilliant visions which 
flitted before my eyes that night, the 
thought of God's requirements came with 
a stinging force which made me thrust them 
back again. I chose to consign them to 
darkness and oblivion ; for they were black 



A VISITOR. 97 



shadows, disfiguring all the hopes I in- 
dulged of a happy future. Neither would 
I listen to the gentle voice which sought 
entrance to my soul, — a voice that assured 
me I should be unhappy if all the treasures 
of the world were mine, because I was 
made for something better, — a voice which 
told of higher joys than those I was covet- 
ing so eagerly. Sweet breathings of the 
Spirit upon the night and chaos of my soul ! 
why were they not listened to ? Why did I 
not admit the glorious light of heaven to 
irradiate my miserable darkness ? 

I had blamed the great Author of my 
being for not having created me incapable 
of sinning; yet I was rejecting every at- 
tempt he made to win me back to purity 
and blessedness, and clinging to the very 
sinfulness and misery I professed to desire 
to be freed from so earnestly ! He would 
have loosed the chains that bound me, but 
I hugged them closer around my soul. He 
would have filled my soul with peace and 
joy such as the world could never give, but 
I turned from them to the beggarly ele- 
ments, the vile husks, of earthly pleasure. 
I silenced the heavenly voices and fell 



98 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



asleep, to live over again in my dreams the 
alluring scenes which had been presented 
to my view. 

The next day Cousin John was absent 
till late in the afternoon, attending to the 
business which had brought him to Hill- 
bury. So I wore my old frock and dug 
potatoes without being seen by his con- 
temptuous eyes. But, for all that, I was 
not happy. I was in an excited state of 
mind ; and over and over again during the 
day I said to myself, " I will leave this old 
farm, — this mean, miserable place. I will 
never slave here another year, hoeing and 
digging in the dirt. I will see if I can't 
be somebody in the world." The way to 
my doing this now seemed clear to me. I 
would go to New York. There was where 
Cousin John had made himself a rich and 
happy man. I would rise there as well as 
he, — perhaps become at his age what he 
was now. I would find courage to ask him 
what I could do there. Perhaps he would 
assist me ; and possibly he might take me 
into his employment. How delightful that 
would be ! 

I again arrayed myself in my best suit 



A VISITOR. 99 



and went in to hear more of his inspiring 
conversation. Soon after tea, he turned to 
me abruptly and said, — 

" Allen, — that's your name, I think, — 
what are you going to do with yourself? 
You seem too likely a chap to stay on the 
old place always." 

Blushing with pleasure even at this 
coarse compliment, I said, — 

"I do not know, sir. I mean to leave 
Hillbury, but have not decided where I 
shall go." 

"How would you like to go to the city, 
boy? That's the place to make something 
of yourself. Plenty to do there of all kinds 
of work. What can you do ? Write a good 
hand?" 

" Tolerably fair, sir," I said. The truth 
was, I prided myself on writing well. 

44 Good in figures ?" 

44 1 have been through the arithmetic 
three times ; and the last time I did every 
sum in it." And I coloured at thus praising 
myself. 

44 Well, well, you seem a pretty forward, 
active sort of a lad. Sometimes boys from 
the country get rubbed down and make 



100 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



the smartest kind of business-men, I came 
from the country myself. I reckon you 
could find something to do. I don't know 
but we might find employment for such a 
slip of a boy in our office. Plenty of work 
there of one kind and another. " 

I cannot describe the emotions that 
these few words excited. I fairly trembled 
with delight ; but, making an effort to be 
calm, I inquired, — 

""What would you wish me to do, sir?" 

" Oh, I shouldn't want you to be too 
scrupulous about your work. I should ex- 
pect you to do just what we wanted. Some- 
times running about the city, sometimes 
making out bills, sometimes one thing and 
sometimes another." 

How magnificent it sounded in my ears ! 
To think of being a clerk to the firm of 

Ostrander, Mather & Co., 156 Street, 

New York ! It made the blood fairly race 
through my veins. My father had said 
nothing during this conversation, and just 
then my mother entered, and, taking her 
sewing, sat down by the little table. 

" I have been speaking to your son about 
going to New York to live. That's the 



A VISITOR. 101 



place to make a man of him. You 
shouldn't keep him buried in the country, — 
such a smart, active lad as he seems to be." 

" We should not like to trust him quite 
so far from us," said my mother, without 
raising her eyes. " He is our only son, you 
know." 

" Oh, I dare say ; mothers always feel 
such things a little at first. But you would 
soon get used to having him away; and 
when he came back, a well-to-do city gen- 
tleman, making a dash about Hillbury, 
you'd feel very proud of him, Mrs. Rich- 
mond, — very proud, and very glad you 
didn't keep him tied to your apron-string." 

" We shall be in no haste to decide about 
his future occupation," replied my mother. 
" He will certainly remain at home till 
spring." 

" Why, I didn't know but we would take 
him into our concern," said Cousin John, 
as if of course that would be irresistible: 
" not that he would be of much use to us 
yet a while, but for relation's sake, you 
know; and in time he might get made over 
and be worth something. Always plenty 
to do in such a great concern : occupy half 

9* 



102 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



a dozen green hands well enough one way 
and another.'' 

Too well I knew by my mother's face 
that she would oppose my going; and, God 
forgive me for it ! but there rose up in my 
heart at the moment something akin to 
hatred towards her, — towards her, my gen- 
tle, patient mother ! 

""We will think about it, Cousin John," 
said my father, pleasantly. "We are much 
obliged to you for your kind offer; but an 
only son, you know, can't be disposed of 
suddenly." 

Little more was said upon the subject, 
and the next morning Cousin John left us. 
His last words to me were, "Good-by, my 
boy. You had better make up your mind 
to come to New York by-and-by. We'll 
be sure and give you a place and a welcome 
any time." 

What bewildering visions of life in a city 
— that great unknown land of promise — 
passed before my vision after he had gone ! 
Life among all that was showy and attract- 
ive ; life where there would be no more 
drudgery to do, no more digging potatoes 
or wearing linsey-woolsey frocks ; life as a 



A VISITOR. 103 



spruce, well-dressed clerk, an object of envy 
and admiration to all the boys in Hillbury! 
Ah, what delicious pictures of such a life 
floated through my imagination, throwing 
me into a kind of delirious trance, from 
which I almost feared to be awakened ! 
And yet it was not all imagination: there 
was a solid reality now for my dreams to 
rest upon, — dreams as fair and beautiful as 
I had heretofore indulged in without a hope 
of their becoming true. 



104 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



CHAPTER VHL 

OPPOSITION. 

That evening I Lad a long conversation 
with my mother concerning my new plans. 
As I had foreseen, she objected to my 
going. A large city, she said, was a dan- 
gerous place for an inexperienced, sanguine 
youth, full of temptations such as I had 
never dreamed of, — a place where some 
rose to prosperity and eminence, but where 
many went down to poverty, vice and ruin. 
She could not consent to my running such 
a hazard under no protection but Cousin 
John's, w^ho was not in all respects such a 
guide as she could wish. She must, she 
said, do all in her power to surround me 
with good influences, and leave the result 
to a higher Power ; but she should not feel 
that she had done right if she did not op- 
pose a plan which seemed to her so full of 



OPPOSITION. 105 



clanger — so liable to injure if not ruin me 
— as this did. 

"But Cousin John," I said, "was not 
ruined. He had been successful ; and why 
might I not do as well as he ?" 

" And would you be satisfied to be just 
what Cousin John is?" she asked, looking 
into my eyes with her clear glance. 

I was astonished at the question. "Why, 
mother, he is so wealthy and lives in such 
a splendid house and does such an exten- 
sive business. Besides, he knows so much 
and is such a gentleman. Perhaps I cannot 
ever expect to be all he is; but I might 
make a good business-man after I was ' all 
made over,' as he says." 

"I hope, Allen, you will never be 'made 
over' in his meaning of the words," said my 
mother, sadly. " He is an intensely worldly 
man, and to the acquisition of wealth and a 
certain standing in society he has sacrificed 
every thing. Being 'made over' with him 
means giving up every noble aspiration, 
every home-attachment and all the sweet 
simplicity of your youthful nature, and be- 
coming a shrewd, unfeeling man, willing to 
take every advantage of those you deal 



106 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



with, and letting nothing — no affection or 
principle — come between you and a good 
bargain. This is the life he has led; and it 
is the last one I should choose for you. I 
do hope something better for you, my son," 
she added, in a tone of heartfelt tenderness. 

But her earnest words did not affect my 
heart. Uncle John's visit seemed to have 
called out all that was evil in my nature, 
and the better part of it was lying in sub- 
jection. I said I was sure she was unjust 
to Cousin John, and added, bitterly, — 

" You are never willing I should do as I 
want to. You always oppose me." 

I had never spoken to my mother in 
that tone before. She looked astonished, 
— grieved. She did not speak at once, but 
at length said, quietly, — 

"Why do I oppose you, Allen? What 
do you suppose are my motives for differ- 
ing from you as I do ?" 

I did not answer; and she said, "It al- 
ways gives me pain to be compelled to do 
it ; but, because it pains me and pains you, 
I must not weakly neglect to do my duty. 
If I saw you going blindfold towards a pre- 
cipice, I should pull you back, if it did hurt 



OPPOSITION. 107 



you and though you were ever so anxious 
to keep on and sure you were walking in a 
safe and pleasant path. How much more 
now, when I fear you are rushing blindly 
into the greatest danger !" 

If any thing could have softened me, it 
would have been the perfect sweetness of 
my mother's manner. But an evil spirit 
had entered into me, and nothing soothed, 
— every thing irritated me. 

"You know little about the world," i 
said. "Women never do. I am not a boy 
now, but a man ; and I can't be kept in 
leading-strings. I know that men go into 
the city and become wealthy and distin- 
guished; and why may not I? I know I 
could make something of myself if every- 
body didn't do all they could to hold me 
back and pin me down at home. But I am 
determined I will go, at all events. Here 
is a good offer ; and I won't lose the only 
chance I may ever have of becoming some- 
thing decent just because other people have 
so many whims." 

Oh, the intense selfishness, the injustice 
and cruelty, of this speech ! I knew it was 
brutal; but I would not heed the voice of 



108 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



conscience, which loudly remonstrated. My 
pride was in the ascendant, and I would not 
yield a hair's-breadth to the better emotion 
which struggled to gain a power within me. 
"We had better not talk of this any 
more to-night,' ' my mother said, and left 
the room. I shall never forget her look as 
she rose to go, were I to live a hundred 
years ! It was a look so full of pain, yet so 
free from anger ; such a look as the seraph 
Raphael might have turned on Eve when 
she plucked the forbidden fruit ! But my 
wilful heart would not heed it, — would 
heed nothing but its own impetuous pas- 
sions. Over and over again I said to my- 
self, " I must stand up for my rights. It is 
proper I should. Everybody who has be- 
come distinguished has had to fight with 
opposition at the outset. If I submit now 
I shall always have to submit. When my 
mother finds I am firm she will yield ; and 
years hence, when I have succeeded, — 
which I shall, and without becoming hard- 
ened, either, — she will be glad I did not 
listen to her; she will rejoice in my perse- 
verance and be proud of me." And the 
pleasant conviction that I was playing a 



OPPOSITION. 109 



heroic and manly part sustained me. In 
vain did the sweet voices from a better 
world seek to gain entrance to my soul 
that night. From the faintest tone of self- 
reproach or penitence, from every pleading 
of love or sorrow, I turned away almost 
fiercely. "I was not a baby," I said to 
myself. "I was a man, and would show 
myself one by carrying my point beyond 
all opposition. " And I dwelt again, en- 
chanted, upon the pleasures of the life be- 
fore me. It would give scope for all my 
energies. I was active rather than studious 
in my habits, and I should be sure to suc- 
ceed ; and my last waking thoughts were 
of myself returning to my native village 
some five years hence with such a vest and 
watch-chain and lordly mien as Cousin 
John's, and creating a great sensation by 
walking through the streets. 

The next day, as I was husking corn with 
my father, I sounded him with regard to 
the plan, and found he was not so entirely 
opposed to it as my mother. It seemed to 
him a pretty good opening for a young 
man. To-be-sure, Cousin John was not so 

particular about some things; but he had 
10 



110 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



a business-tact and was now well settled. 
New York was a wicked place; but he 
hoped I had been so trained that I should 
not be led away by its temptations. He 
advised me to be in no hurry about de- 
ciding, and by no means to act in opposi- 
tion to my mother's wishes. 

That evening I had another conversation 
with my mother. I could not bring myself 
exactly to apologize for my undutiful man- 
ner last evening ; but I said that I was 
sorry to give her pain and that I was sure 
she meant to consult my best good, (the 
self-conceited coxcomb that I was !) but 
that the more I reflected upon it the more 
I felt certain I had better go to New York 
in the spring. I told her my father, I was 
sure, if left to form his own views, would 
give his consent; and therefore it would be 
right in me to go. 

My mother was grave, but, as usual, very 
calm. I again remarked that I thought she 
was prejudiced against Cousin John, — as if 
I could judge character better than she ! 

"I must tell you more of Cousin John's 
history than I intended to," she replied, 
" for I hoped your wish to go to him would 



OPPOSITION. Ill 



have passed away. But, as your feeling 
seems such an earnest one, I must do my 
best to enlighten you with regard to him. 

"He began his career at sixteen, as a 
pedlar, with two tin boxes slung over his 
back, leaving a widowed mother at home 
and three younger sisters. He was then an 
active, self-willed boy, discontented with 
home and anxious to free himself from its 
restraints. He was determined to become 
rich, and sacrificed every thing to that pas- 
sion. He must have had a natural tact for 
money-making ; for all his speculations — of 
which he entered into many — proved suc- 
cessful, and in ten years he had greatly 
enlarged his operations. About that time 
he drew a prize in a lottery, which he in- 
vested in a small dry-goods store in New 
York. From that he went on from step to 
step till he became a merchant on quite an 
extensive scale, entering into a partnership 
with one or two others and beginning to 
live very expensively and showily, having 
married a lady from the city. In the mean 
time, his mother and sisters remained as 
poor as ever, — not literally suffering from 
want, but labouring hard and practising 



112 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



the most rigid economy. After a time, the 
dashing firm to which he belonged failed, 
owing very heavy debts to numerous cre- 
ditors, who could find very little property 
to satisfy their claims. A settlement was 
effected in a few months, by which the firm 
obtained a discharge by paying twenty cents 
on the dollar. Within a year from that 
time, Cousin John turned up in Baltimore, 
once more a merchant, on a larger scale 
than ever. He came on to make his 
country friends a visit, parading his fine 
broadcloth and gold watch-chains much 
after his present fashion, and riding about 
the country with his wife and children in a 
fine carriage with a pair of horses, creating 
quite a sensation. It is but justice to him 
to say that at that time he made some pro- 
vision for his mother, — by no means a libe- 
ral one, but which secured her from want 
during the remainder of her life." 

"What had become of the younger sis- 
ters?" I asked. 

" The oldest had married a respectable 
farmer in the neighbourhood; the second, 
who had supported herself by housework, 
had sickened and died; and the youngest 



OPPOSITION. 1 1 3 



of them continued with her mother, and 
took in sewing. This was about ten 
years ago. Since then I have heard very 
little about him. I know that he failed 
again in Baltimore, getting a discharge 
from his creditors by paying a small pro- 
portion of his debts, and that he afterwards 
began business as a commission-merchant 
in New York, living very extravagantty and 
having the appearance of great wealth." 

"And is he not wealthy?" I asked. 

" I do not know. If he has property in 
his possession, it rightfully belongs to his 
creditors, — though they cannot legally claim 
it. He has no right to be a wealthy man. 

" You will now understand, Allen, why I 
am unwilling you should be in any w^ay as- 
sociated with him or become what he is. I 
do not consider him an honest man, or in 
any sense of the word a gentleman. He 
makes great pretensions, which may impose 
upon some ignorant minds ; but a true gen- 
tleman is always modest and unassuming. 
Why, Allen, I would rather see you the 
poorest man in Hillbury, earning your 
bread by the most menial toil, provided 
you were honest, than such a man as 

10* 



114 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



Cousin John is, living in splendour. If 
poor and honest, I could still be proud of 
you ; but it would break my heart if you 
should lose your integrity, even if you 
were ever so prosperous. No right-minded 
person can feel any respect for a man who 
defrauds his creditors and himself revels in 
costly luxuries.' ' 

"Do you think J would become dishonest 
if I were in his employment? No, indeed! 
I would not do a mean, dishonourable thing 
for any man, be he whom he might.' ' And 
I drew myself up with the pride of a boy 
who is always certain he shall come out of 
the fiery furnace of temptation unscathed 
and triumphant, little knowing that, unless 
One in the likeness of the Son of God walk 
beside him there, he will inevitably perish 
in the flames. 

" You little know yourself, my child, or 
the disguises in which vice masks herself. 
I know every thing dishonest is abhorrent 
to you now; but you are no better than 
many others who have fallen a prey to evil 
practices who once felt as sure of their in- 
tegrity as you do now. You have never 
been tried; you have been shielded from 



OPPOSITION. 115 



evil and surrounded by good influences 
from your cradle ; yet you would now cast 
these restraints all aside and plunge into 
the wildest whirlpool of temptation, totally 
ignorant of your danger and of your weak- 
ness." 

"Yes, I would!" I said, impetuously. 
"I would try my strength and find if I 
have any character or not. What shall I 
ever be good for till I have battled with 
temptation ? Nothing but a poor, weak 
simpleton! But mothers," I added, "al- 
ways feel so. If they had the direction, no 
son would ever make any thing of himself. 
Women are always timid.' 

"And you are brave and wise enough to 
see that your mother is a poor, weak, despi- 
cable creature, whose opinions are of little 
value !" There was an expression of an- 
guish on my mother's face; but it soon 
passed away, and she said, quietly, 

" I must make allowances for boyish im- 
petuosity. You do not mean all you say, 
Allen ; and the time will come when you 
will know a mother's love and counsels are 
worth something in a world like this." 

Ah, yes, dear, sainted mother! I have 



116 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



learned to feel it. Oh, how deeply, how 
sorrowfully! If ever thy purified spirit 
beholds thy wandering child, thou seest 
that at last the reckless, ungrateful boy 
has learned to value that mother's love 
as the richest gift God could bestow upon 
him, and that he fain would weep tears 
of bitter penitence upon thy breast and 
breathe into thine ear the confession no 
earthly listener may hear! Ah, why do 
sorrow and penitence so often come too 
late? 



LEAVING HOME. 117 



CHAPTER IX. 

LEAVING HOME. 

A few weeks passed away, — a few mise- 
rable weeks, in which a bitter struggle be- 
tween good and evil was going on within 
me. There are many kinds of sorrow in 
this life, many heart-crushing trials ; but 
among them all I do not believe there is 
one so bitter, so wretched, as that produced 
by the conflict between one's own convic- 
tions of duty and an unwillingness to per- 
form it. Hide it as we may from all human 
eyes, overlay it with light jests or business- 
cares as we will, till we lose all distinct con- 
sciousness of it ourselves, still, the misery 
is there, like a worm gnawing silently and 
steadily at the root of all our peace. How 
many bear this heavy burden through a 
weary lifetime ! How many must bear it 



118 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



more wearily still through the unending 
future ! 

Susan had left home directly after Cousin 
John's departure, to spend the winter with 
an aunt who needed her assistance, and I 
missed her bright face and the birdlike 
music of her voice, which used to have 
power at times to charm away the evil 
spirit from my breast. My mother seldom 
sung now ; her step was slower about the 
house and less firm ; and a careful observer 
might have seen that her health was gradu- 
ally giving way. But she was always cheer- 
ful and thoughtful of others, and my selfisl 
heart dreamed of no coming shadows. 

About New Year's day, a letter arrivec 
from Cousin John, making a direct pro- 
posal for me to come to him immediately, 
as one of his young men had gone. He 
would give me employment, board me in 
his own family and pay me fifty dollars the 
first year. Now the question must be de- 
cided at once. My mother looked verj 
grave, and repeated to my father and to me 
her objections, — serious enough, one woulc 
have thought, to have influenced us both; 
but it was evident my father rather favoured 



LEAVING HOME. 119 



the idea, and I was eager and determined 
to go at all hazards. I was so infatuated 
that if the consent of my parents had been 
withheld I certainly should have run away. 
Seeing the state of my mind, my mother 
yielded. If I went, I should take with me 
a mother's blessing. Yet in my heart I 
knew I was giving her extreme pain and 
that I was really a disobedient child ; but 
the excitement of preparing for my depar- 
ture crowded such thoughts out of my 
mind. Our merchant, Mr. Reed, was going 
to New York in two weeks ; and it was de- 
cided I should go with him. I blush now 
to think of the sacrifices which were made 
by those loving parents to add to my little 
outfit, — sacrifices made cheerfully and re- 
ceived by me as a matter of course, so 
thoroughly selfish had I grown. 

But when the hour came for parting, 
when Susan, who had come home to say 
good-by, clung sobbing to my neck, when 
my father uttered his fervent " God bless 
you, my boy !" and my mother folded me 
to her heart with a passionate grief too 
deep for words or tears, my pride gave 
way. I was the Allen of former days, the 



120 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



loving, trusting boy. I really wished at 
that moment that I had never decided to 
leave them. I promised over and over, 
amid fast-falling tears, to write very often, 
to tell them every thing, to remember all 
their counsels, to be all they could wish. 

The stage came, and I was gone ! Gone 
from the quiet old homestead ; gone from 
the hearts that loved me as no other hearts 
could; gone, leaving the peaceful past all 
behind me, to launch out anew on the 
great sea of life ! 

The exhilaration produced by riding in 
the frosty air revived my spirits, and I again 
looked eagerly into the future. I felt that 
I was beginning life anew ; and, in the fer- 
vour of my boyish heart, I determined it 
should be an upright, noble life, such as 
my parents would never blush to look 
upon. I would become worthy of them, — 
their pride and joy. I felt sorrow at having 
grieved my mother, and would tell her so 
when I wrote; but I said, "The future 
shall richly atone for the past. She shall 
not only forgive, but rejoice in, this separa- 
tion. V 

It is with peculiar emotion I look back 



LEAVING HOME. 121 



upon this point in my history. When I 
see that boy of seventeen going forth alone 
into the world, so sanguine of success and 
yet so reckless and so ignorant of all he 
needed to know, I can but wonder that he 
was saved from utter ruin. It was only be- 
cause an unseen Presence went forth with 
him to guard and protect him that he did 
not plunge into follies from which he could 
never have extricated himself. Yet the reck- 
less, self-relying boy asked and wished for 
no such guidance. God be praised that a mo- 
ther's prayers in his behalf were heard and 
answered ! 

In due time we reached New York; and 
for the first time I was in a city, amid its 
bewildering brilliancy, its hurrying masses 
of human beings, its Babel-like and cease- 
less roar, which to me, who knew not a 
single soul among that busy throng, was 
more solemn and lonely than even the roar 
of the great ocean. I shall never forget the 
feeling of isolation — of being swallowed up 
and lost in that vast, all-devouring whole — 
which came over me as I walked up Broad- 
way for the first time. At a hotel where 
Mr. Reed stopped, I left my little wooden 
11 



122 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



trunk and received such directions as en- 
abled me to find Mr. Mather's residence. 

It was late in the evening when I stood 
on the steps of my cousin's dwelling, — a 
large house, with a fine stone front, in a 
fashionable street. How insignificant I 
felt amid those piles of brick and mortar 
towering so high above me ! My courage 
had gone, and I trembled like a criminal as 
I stood there under the light of the street- 
lamps trying to gather resolution to ring 
the door-bell. At last I gave the large 
knob a pull. I had never rung a bell be- 
fore, and had no idea how the feat was to 
be accomplished ; but my effort brought a 
well-dressed man to the door, to whom I 
said, "How do you do, sir?" in the most 
respectful manner. He smiled, and when 
I inquired for Mr. Mather told me he was 
not at home, and then looked as if he 
expected me to go away. What should I 
do ? I ventured to inquire for Mrs. Mather, 
telling him, in a confidential manner, that 
I was their cousin from Hillbury and had 
come to stay with them. With another 
smile he ushered me into the parlour, — a 
room far more magnificent than I had ever 



LEAVING HOME. 123 



dreamed of. As he turned on the gas it 
flashed up into a radiance like that of some 
fairy-palace, quite dazzling my inexperi- 
enced eyes. Sure enough, the carpet did 
look too good to step on and the chairs 
and sofas too elegant to sit upon. After 
some hesitation, I settled myself on a low 
stool covered with beautiful needlework, 
and carefully surveyed the room. Then, 
not feeling quite sure it was designed for a 
seat, I removed myself to a chair, which, 
though so elegantly covered, I was certain 
must be made to sit on, and with a pal- 
pitating heart awaited Mrs. Mather's en- 
trance. Opposite me was a very large 
splendid mirror, in which I could see my- 
self from head to foot ; and, oh, what a 
sorry figure I cut there in my home-made 
garments, which in Hillbury I thought so 
very nice ! 

I was filled with mortification, and could 
have fairly cried, such an intense longing that 
moment came over me to be at home in the 
good old-fashioned kitchen where I was 
known and loved, and where I was sure my 
mother and Susan were then quietly sitting, 
perhaps talking of me affectionately. 



124 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



The entrance of Mrs. Mather recalled me 
to the present. She was a delicate, lady- 
like-looking person, whose pleasant voice 
reminded me of my mother's. She spoke 
very kindly, said Mr. Mather expected me, 
and inquired about my journey and my 
home. In half an hour her husband came 
in. As he said, "How d'ye do?" in his 
usual boisterous manner, he gave a sharp 
glance over my person, which made me 
feel still more ashamed of myself. 

" Glad you've come, my boy. We must 
get you fixed up a little, and make a spruce 
New Yorker of you one of these days. 
Good stout Yankee lad, — eh, wife?" 

Mrs. Mather smiled and asked how old I 
was. Then they entered into conversation, 
in which I took no part, till Mrs. Mather 
said she was sure I must be tired and would 
like to go to bed. She placed her hand on 
a beautiful crimson tassel on the wall, and 
in a moment the same man I had seen at 
the door entered. 

"John, show Mr. Allen to his room, — 
the one over the dining-room." 

After saying good-night and leaving the 
room awkwardly, I followed John up a 



LEAVING HOME. 125 



long, steep flight of stairs richly carpeted, 
then through a hall, where he lighted a 
small lamp, then down some steps into a 
smaller hall, where, opening a door and 
saying, " This is your room," he left me. 
Eveiy thing looked very elegant to my 
country eyes ; but when I had shut the 
door and was fairly alone I felt dreary and 
homesick enough. It seemed an age since 
yesterday morning, when I stood at the 
door of the dear old cottage. How far, far 
away every familiar object was! Even the 
omission of family prayers gave me an 
added feeling of bereavement. I had never 
before gone to bed without them ; and, 
little as I had valued them at the time, I 
now felt as if I had not only got beyond 
the reach of all earthly friends, but even, as 
it were, of God himself; and, strangely 
enough, this thought saddened me inex- 
pressibly. 

The next morning the clock of a church 
near by struck seven as I woke. My first 
thought was that it thundered ; but, on re- 
covering my senses a little, I remembered 
where I was, and knew that strange, un- 
earthly sound was but the roar of that great 
11* 



126 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



sea of human life which was now surging 
around me. All was dark; and when I 
raised the window and threw back the 
shutter I could see nothing but a dense 
fog, through which loomed up a blank 
brick wall. Again I thought of home with 
a longing heart; but I had slept off my 
fatigue, and my spirits rose as I remembered 
what lay before me. Even if life in New 
York did not look so charming as it had in 
the distance, I would try it, and would 
carry into it a stout, brave heart, meeting 
trials, if they came, as a man should meet 
them. My mother's lessons were not quite 
lost upon me, though I had been so recreant 
of late. 

A first day in New York must of course 
be a wonderful one to a country lad. I 
went directly after breakfast with Mr. 
Mather (I no longer thought of him as 
Cousin John) to his place of business, — the 

veritable 156 Street. It was a chilly 

day, very dark, and slightly raining. The 
warehouse was dim and dingy in every 
part, and the little back-room where I was 
taken as my place of work required to be 
lighted before we could see to do any thing. 



LEAVING HOME. 127 



The light only served to disclose its dreary- 
aspect. There was a vile odour of coal- 
gas and smoke and city-filth generally, 
which was most offensive to my senses, 
accustomed to the purity of country-air. 
I confessed to myself this was different 
from what I had pictured New York life ; 
but I had not been trained to be fastidious, 
and I resolved little things should not annoy 
me. 

Mr. Mather had told me as we came 
down that the firm dealt in manufactured 
cotton of various kinds. They received 
immense quantities from manufacturers in 
New England, — principally from Rhode 
Island, — and sold them at wholesale, re- 
ceiving a certain percentage on the sales 
as their commission. Several individuals 
were in the different rooms, all exceedingly 
busy — too busy to notice me — and all 
apparently perfectly acquainted with their 
business. I only was ignorant ; and I felt 
myself a stupid dunce. As Mr. Mather 
had said, book-knowledge was of no use 
here. I knew the names and meaning of 
nothing around me ; and this gave me a 
mortifying sense of degradation. If New 



128 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



York does little else for a country-lad puffed 
up with a sense of his own importance, it 
does take the conceit out of him. 

Mr. Mather was kind enough, but he had 
little time to waste on me. Consigning 
me to a thin, sallow- visaged man whom he 
called Page, he left me, saying, — 

" Do as you're told, and bother nobody 
by asking questions.' ' 

"Page" — a middle-aged man (the head 
book-keeper, as I afterwards ascertained) — 
moved to give me a place beside him at a 
long desk where he was standing, and, 
putting a pen in my hand, asked for a speci- 
men of my handwriting. With a trembling 
hand, I wrote Allen Richmond^ Hillbury, as 
nicely as I could. 

"Pretty fair," said Mr. Page, looking at 
it very carefully. "You may copy these 
papers," taking down a huge folio from a 
shelf above him and laying it before me, 
and also a large bundle of papers num- 
bered A, B, C, &c. "We want duplicates 
of these. Begin with A, and copy it into 
the book with perfect accuracy. If you 
make the slightest mistake, even of a letter 



LEAVING HOME. 129 



or a separating-point, tell me : don't slip 
it by thinking it's of no consequence." 

Mr. Page had a wiry, ill-natured voice; 
but I determined to do my best to please 
him. I began to copy the papers, — clumsily 
enough, I dare say, but energetically and 
carefully. If I made a mistake I imme- 
diately informed Mr. Page of it, in a low 
but distinct voice, and he showed me how 
to remedy it. If it was a serious error, the 
leaf was cut out and I began at the top 
of another page. Hour after hour I stood 
at that desk, scarcely lifting my eyes, till 
my head grew dizzy. The outside roar, 
the unusual confinement and the stifled 
atmosphere, all conspired to give me a tor- 
turing headache and wretched nausea. At 
last, to my great joy, Mr. Mather came. 

"How does my green hand get on, 
Page?" 

" Much like all new-beginners," he grum- 
bled, — adding, in a lower tone, " Plagues of 
my life, all of 'em." 

" Let me see your hand, boy." (How I 
wished Mr. Mather would not always call 
me "boy," or "green hand," or some such 
demeaning appellation !) He glanced over 



130 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



the book. " Bather uneven lines, to-be- 
sure ; but you'll learn, you'll learn : no- 
thing like trying." 

So no word of commendation reached my 
longing ear as a reward for the six hours 
of faithful, wearying labour. A clock struck 
two as we passed into the street. What a 
pleasant change it was into the open air, — 
even the air of a narrow New York street in a 
rainy day ! Yet what scenes of indescribable 
filth and misery met my eye as we passed 
silently on, turning corner after corner ! 
My heart ached for others as well as for 
myself; for at that moment New York 
seemed to me like one great charnel-house, 
where all light and beauty, hope and joy, 
lay buried " a thousand fathoms deep." 

We sat down to dinner; but I could not 
eat. Mrs. Mather noticed it, and said some- 
thing in a kind, motherly voice which went 
to my heart. 

"Pooh ! don't make a baby of him, Jane. 
If you are weak yourself, you needn't spoil 
other folks." 

These words were uttered in the most 
contemptuous, disagreeable tone imagina- 
ble. Poor and rude as my country home 






LEAVING HOME. 131 



had been, I had never heard in it any thing 
so ungentlenianly as that speech and tone. 

The meal was an uncomfortable one to 
me, though served up very handsomely, 
with a man-servant in attendance. How 
gladly would I have exchanged the ser- 
vants, silver plate, cut glass and costly 
dishes for a dinner of herbs and love there- 
with ! 

Soon after three we returned to the store, 
and I wrote again till six, when, being told 
I could do what I pleased till seven, the 
tea-hour, I went into the street. While a 
little doubtful in what direction to turn my 
steps, a young man, about my own age, 
whom I had seen in the store during the 
day, joined me. 

" You'll get lost," he said, in a super- 
cilious, disagreeable tone, " if you run about 
the city alone, Mr. Country-boj 7 : so you 
must take me for your company." 

U I choose to go alone," I said, drawing 
myself up indignantly. "If you are going 
this way, I will turn and go the other." 

"Not so fast, Mr. Spitfire: you needn't 
steam up so fast. I'm as good company as 
you'll find here. I'm going into Broadway; 



132 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



and you'll like to see the sights there, I 
know. Come along, and I'll tell you all 
about them." 

As his tone had changed into one of 
familiar cordiality, and as I really did want 
to see Broadwaj^, I kept on, though not 
much fancying my companion. 

What a new world of light and splendour 
burst upon my eyes as we turned into 
Broadway lighted up by gas ! At first my 
senses were so completely bewildered, so 
wrapped in enchantment, I could perceive 
nothing clearly ; but by degrees I began to 
see, and, but for the fear of Harry Dawson's 
ridicule, I believe I should have burst out 
into audible exclamations of delight. 

Such splendid jewelry, such glittering 
silver plate, such magnificent silks, such 
lovely pictures, such piles of confectionery, 
such worlds of every thing new and dazzling, 
— oh, it was all like having fairy-tales come 
true ! What would I not have given to 
have had Susan with me to see every thing 
that was strange and pretty ! On and on 
we went, discovering something still more 
wonderful, till the clock of one of the great 
stone churches tolled out seven and re- 



LEAVING HOME. 133 



minded me I ought to be at home. But I 
spent a glorious hour, such as can come but 
once in a lifetime. Scenes more wonder- 
ful may greet the eye in after-years ; but 
they will not awaken the vivid delight, the 
fresh, virgin rapture, which thrilled the 
bosom of the boy. New York was all I 
had expected, — nay, vastly more enchant- 
ing and splendid than my brightest dream 
had pictured it. My spirit was stirred by 
all the brilliancy and activity around me 
as by a strain of martial music ; and I looked 
with a more ineffable contempt than ever 
upon the dulness of the country, and re- 
joiced at the prospect before me. 

Harry Dawson was himself a curiosity to 
me, he was so wholly unlike any young 
man I had ever seen. I was half irritated 
by his reckless, impertinent way of talking; 
but his intimate acquaintance with the city, 
and the easy familiarity with which he 
spoke of things which filled me with asto- 
nishment, gave him a certain superiority 
in my eyes, while the light-hearted, comical 
way in which he enlightened while he 
laughed at my ignorance amused me. 

I found he was the only young person 
12 



134 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



beside myself in the employment of " our 
firm," and that, like me, he sometimes 
wrote at the desk and sometimes went 
about the city on errands. As we went 
homewards I ventured to ask a good many 
questions I had not dared to put to Mr. 
Mather. With a shrewd insight into cha- 
racter and a volubility of tongue which 
none but a city-boy ever possesses, he 
sketched for me the different members of 
the establishment, giving such absurd pic- 
tures of them all, from Mr. Ostrander, the 
senior, to Tim McCarthy, the porter, that, 
though they were evidently caricatures, I 
laughed heartily, — even at my own portrait, 
which he certainly made ludicrous enough. 
"Why, Richmond, you are a better fel- 
low than I took you for. When you got 
into such a huff at first, I thought you was 
mighty countrified and thin-skinned." So 
saying, he turned into the street where he 
lodged, and I pursued my way alone to Mr. 
Mather's. 



LIFE IN NEW YORK. 135 



CHAPTER X. 

LIFE IN NEW YORK. 

This first day was a pretty fair sample of 
my life in New York for the next three 
months, The waking-up to the dreary 
look-out on the blank brick wall ; the break- 
fast, at which Mrs. Mather was usually pale 
and silent and her husband engrossed by 

his newspaper ; the hurried walk to 

Street, sometimes through mud and slush 
and drizzling sleet, sometimes under a 
bright sky and with an exhilarating breeze 
from the salt water new-stringing every 
nerve ; the five or six hours' weary confine- 
ment at the desk ; the dinner, always gen- 
teel, and yet somehow lacking the full 
relish of the humble meal at home; the 
walk back ; the three hours' longer writing ; 
and then the ramble round the city till tea- 
time, — after which came writing letters 



136 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



home, or reading, or, much oftener, a stroll 
into some hitherto unexplored quarter with 
Harry Dawson and some of his companions 
as my guides. 

Of the business-affairs of the firm, or the 
manner in which they were conducted, I 
knew very little. Mr. Ostrander, the senior 
partner, had gone to the South to negotiate 
for the sale of goods there, and in his ab- 
sence Mr. Mather was at the head of affairs. 
I sometimes heard him engaged in the next 
room in an angry altercation with Mr. 
Ostrander the younger, — a brother of the 
absent partner, and himself a member of 
the firm, — but I was totally ignorant of the 
nature of their differences. Mr. Page was 
the head book-keeper, and I had been 
established as his clerk. My fine hand, on 
which I had prided myself so much, was in 
some sense a misfortune to me ; for it con- 
fined me entirety to the desk, while Harry 
Dawson, who wrote miserably, was sent on 
all the out-of-door errands. I tried to per- 
form the duties expected of me faithfully, 
and was well treated by all with whom I 
came in contact; for, though Mr. Page was 
irritable, he was not on the whole an un- 



LIFE IN NEW YORK. 137 



reasonable man, and my efforts to please 
him were tolerably successful. Under his 
instructions I learned the forms of business- 
papers and the neatest way of executing 
them; but my part of the labour was merely 
mechanical, and to me unspeakably weari- 
some. It was more disagreeable than dig- 
ging potatoes under the open heavens had 
ever been, though I had rid myself of the 
linsey-woolsey frock. 

There was no particular hardship in 
this life : few clerks have so easy a 
time ; for, though I often ached in every 
limb before the day's task was done, I was 
not over- worked ; and, instead of taking my 
meals where I could, and being crowded 
into a miserable lodging-room at night, as 
are most young men of my condition, 
I was received into Mr. Mather's family 
and kindly treated by them. Mr. Mather 
was a violent-tempered man ; but he usually 
vented his ill-nature on his wife when at 
home and on Mr. Page when at the store, 
so that I had no cause of complaint ; and 
Mrs. Mather was uniformly kind and con- 
siderate. I became sincerely attached to 
her ; and, as her husband was often away till 

12* 



138 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



a late hoar at night, I sat up and read aloud 
to her, or talked of my mother and sister 
and my dear country home, — topics most 
delightful to me and apparently pleasant to 
her, for she was never tired of asking me 
about the country and our mode of life 
there. 

" Your mother must have been an un- 
common woman," she said to me one even- 
ing, "and very particular in the training of 
her children. Why, when Mr. Mather first 
told me you were coming, I figured to my- 
self a coarse, boisterous, up-country lad, who 
would talk through his nose, pick his teeth 
with a fork and spit on the carpet, and I 
decided to have you take your meals down- 
stairs with John ; and, if I had not acci- 
dentally seen you that first evening and 
changed my impression, you would have 
lived down there, and I should have hardly 
known of your being in the house." 

"Yet I felt most uncomfortably awkward 
that night," I said. "Every thing here was 
so new to me." 

"Yes, I saw you did ; but it was the awk- 
wardness of one who is ignorant of the 
mere forms of society, not the vulgarity of 



LIFE IN NEW YORK. 139 



one who had never been taught good man- 
ners. Your mother must have been a lady 
some time in her life." 

" She is a lady now/' I said, proudly. " I 
am sure you would think so if you could 
see her. I know you would like my mo- 
ther, Mrs. Mather." 

" I am sure I should," she replied. " And, 
if I live till next summer, I think I will go 
to Hillbury and see her and those beautiful 
green hills." 

My wise, my beloved mother ! How often 
in my life have I felt most grateful to her 
for not neglecting the little things which 
her good neighbours thought of no conse- 
quence, but which everywhere helped me to 
make friends ! 

Mrs. Mather went very little into society. 
Her delicate health and a want of taste for 
gayety prevented it; and, when her hus- 
band (excessively fond of show in every 
thing) insisted upon her giving parties, she 
had a quiet, graceful manner of receiving 
her guests, very unlike his boisterous and 
vulgar one. In time I came to be of my 
mother's opinion, that pretension was by 
no means elegance ; and my natural sense 



140 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



of propriety was often shocked by his boast- 
ful, overbearing conversation and that rude- 
ness of demeanour which is selfishly forget- 
ful of the feelings and convenience of 
others, — a rudeness of which no true gentle- 
man or lady is ever guilty. 

What was the effect of such a life upon 
me, mentally and morally? I thought little 
about that at the time ; but nevertheless I 
was under powerful influences. I received 
little direct counsel from any one. " Learn 
to look out for yourselves, boys : that's the 
main chance ;" " Take care of number one, 
and all will be well enough;" " ' Go ahead :' 
that's my motto," were the occasional pre- 
cepts imparted by Mr. Mather, who was 
always himself buried in cares and bustling 
about in the most unquiet manner. But 
the life of all around me taught more effec- 
tually than words that wealth was the god 
they worshipped, and that they considered 
no sacrifices too costly to lay upon his 
shrine. I never saw a man who had less 
time for the real enjoyment of life than 
Mr. Mather: he had no leisure for reading, 
for social intercourse, nor for the enjoyment 
of his beautiful home and affectionate wife. 



LIFE IN NEW YORK. 141 



Time, strength, talents, were all given to 
the service of Mammon, who returned as a 
recompense for such devotion — what? I 
did not then stop to inquire. I had caught 
something of the spirit of the place, and 
never doubted we were all working for the 
most desirable and laudable end. I was 
insensibly losing the tenderness of con- 
science which the constant reference to 
right and duty in my old home had fos- 
tered. "Is it right?" "Is it my duty?" 
were words never heard here. " "Will it be 
a good bargain ?" " Will it pay ?" " Is it a 
profitable investment?" These were the 
points to be decided. They are suitable 
questions, too, for the business-man to ask; 
but not the only questions. Expediency, 
(in its limited sense,) self-interest, gain, are 
not to be made the final end and aim of 
existence, and they never had been in my 
father's home; but here the whole atmo- 
sphere was different, and I could not inhale 
it without receiving a new and unhealthful 
moral influence, — though I never thought 
and reasoned on the matter at the time. 

I went with Harry Dawson and his set 
of friends — who had become intimate ac- 



142 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



quaintances of mine — to many places I 
should once have shrunk from, — places 
where moderate drinking (almost univer- 
sally prevalent then) and card-playing were 
allowed. At first I was only a spectator ; 
but at length I became interested, and sat 
down to a game of cards with a quiet con- 
science, — not playing for money, and there- 
fore persuading myself there was no danger 
in it. Thanks to my mother's training, my 
soul turned with loathing from the lower 
haunts of vice, and I could never be per- 
suaded to enter them a second time. 

My Sundays were spent very differently 
from those at home. Mr. Mather seldom 
attended church; but I went with Mrs. 
Mather in the morning. My afternoons 
were spent in light reading of a most frivo- 
lous and often injurious character; and I 
began to go for recreation to the Battery 
and other fashionable promenades, — never, 
though, without a remonstrance from con- 
science and the whispered question, "What 
would your mother say?" 

I received letters from home, always affec- 
tionate and containing good advice from 
that dear mother whose heart was evidently 



LIFE IN NEW YORK. 143 



full of anxiety on my account ; but it was 
not so customary to write then as now, and 
we never exchanged letters more than once 
a month at the oftenest. I told her and 
Susan of all that I thought would interest 
them, carefully concealing whatever would 
give them pain. 

Was I happy in this new life, — happier 
than in the old country-home ? I scarcely 
dared ask myself that question ; but I was 
at times conscious of an irrepressible long- 
ing for the freedom and affection of former 
days. I could not at once forget the dear 
old cottage and the beautiful scenery which 
had all my life surrounded me ; and, as I 
walked through the crowded streets, visions 
of green hills and sunny valleys, with the 
old church-spire glittering above them, rose 
before me, instead of brick stores and show- 
windows and human faces. When the 
novelty of the city was gone, its sights palled 
on my eye. The excitement they produced 
at first had to a great extent subsided, and 
I often longed for a breath of the mountain- 
air on my cheek and the freedom and buoy- 
ancy of the mountain-boy in my heart. But 
I never thought of going back. Separation 



144 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



from what I most loved was the penalty to 
be paid for success in life ; and when my 
heart cried out most loudly and pitifully for 
some sweet word or look of love, for some 
good, old-fashioned, pure enjoyment, I si- 
lenced its cravings by thinking of the day 
when I should gratify my friends by a re- 
cital of my achievements and successes. 

So passed away three months. The soft 
airs of spring were awakening new longings 
for the country; and to forget them I ac- 
cepted more frequently than before pro- 
posals to go with Harry and his set of 
friends. I had no great sympathy with 
them; yet it gratified me to see that, instead 
of laughing at my country ignorance, they 
now rather courted my society; for I had 
the miserable ambition of being taken for 
a city-youth. There was to be a celebra- 
tion of some sort, — a gathering of " good 
fellows," — at which I had promised to be 
present, one mild April evening. I re- 
member well how sweetly and purely the 
moon looked down upon us as we went 
noisily down a narrow street to the saloon 
where our supper was to be eaten. 

There were some young men present of 



LIFE IN NEW YORK. 145 



a higher order of intellect than I had often 
met, and their off-hand witticisms and 
sprightly repartees quite captivated me. I 
talked a good deal and well, (for me,) be- 
cause thoroughly excited. Speeches were 
made, toasts drunk; and when at length 
"Our country-friends" was given I rose 
with flushed cheek and a frame trembling 
with boyish eagerness to reply to it. I 
know not what I said ; but I remember the 
cheers with which it was received ; for the 
music of their applause was as sweet to me 
as that of the most brilliant crowd to the 
experienced orator. I was half delirious 
with delight, and drank wine, and ate 
oysters, and talked, and drank again, half 
unconscious of what I was about, till a 
dizziness came over me, and the table, the 
lights and the faces of my companions all 
whirled around me. I recollect thinking 
the open air would restore me, and that I 
rose to reach the door, but could not walk. 
A shout of laughter fell on my ears. I re- 
member it sounded to me like the shriek- 
ing of a thousand fiends; and I believe I 
cursed them all, or tried to, as I fell back 
senseless. 

13 



146 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



I knew nothing more till I awoke next 
morning in my own bed, with a terrible 
pain shooting through my temples. (I 
heard afterwards I had been brought home 
by my companions, who saw no one but 
John at the door and with his help carried 
me up-stairs.) I tried to rise ; but a misera- 
ble giddiness forced me to lie down again 
by the time I was half dressed. By de- 
grees a distinct idea of what had occurred 
came to me. Oh, what a horrible one it 
was ! Mountains of shame and misery lay 
on my breast, — a load I could not endure. 
I thought of my mother, and with a groan 
of anguish buried my face in the bedclothes. 
I had been drunk ! Yes ; I ? who knew I 
should never yield to temptation, — I, who 
was anxious to court danger that I might 
conquer it, — I was a disgraced outcast, vile 
in my own eyes and (as I supposed) in the 
eyes of all who knew me ! I would never 
consent to see my father's or mother's face 
again. I would never disgrace them or Susan 
by the presence of a drunken son and bro- 
ther. I would fly to some distant corner 
of the world, where they would never see 



LIFE IN NEW YORK. 147 



me more, — where I would hide myself from 
all eyes forever ! 

A gentle rap at the door interrupted my 
dismal meditations. It was Mrs. Mather. 
I felt my face flush crimson as she looked 
at me. 

" Poor boy!" she said, very gently. "I 
am sorry you are sick." 

" Oh, don't pity me !" I broke out, 
wildly. " Despise me! — hate me! I de- 
serve it ! I don't deserve sympathy or kind- 
ness ! You don't know," I exclaimed, 
springing up, — "you don't know I have 
been drunk /" I emphasized the word with 
a sort of frantic energy. 

" Yes ; I know you have been led astray, 
Allen ; but I trust it will never happen 
again, — that this will be a lesson you will 
never forget. You had better have some 
breakfast. It is Sunday, you know; and 
you can remain in your room as long as you 
choose. Mr. Mather knows you are not 
well ; but he does not suspect the cause 
and need not be told. After eating some- 
thing you will feel better.'' 

So saying, she left the room. How her 
kindness fell like coals of fire on my head ! 



148 TWENTY YEAKS OF MY LIFE. 



Yet I felt grateful for it ; and my heart was 
more softened by it than if she had preached 
a thousand lectures. 

John brought up my breakfast. I could 
only take some coffee, but it refreshed me ; 
and, while trying to think, I fell asleep. It 
was afternoon when I was awaked by Mrs. 
Mather's asking, gently, "May I come in?" 
Mrs. Mather was not a woman of superior 
mind; but a warmer heart never dwelt in 
a human breast, and the unkindness and 
worldliness of those around her had not 
spoiled it. She was not at that time a 
member of any church ; but I am sure she 
showed the charity and tenderness of a 
Christian in her treatment of me that morn- 
ing. With a woman's tact, she sought to 
divert my thoughts from my miserable self. 

"I had once a beautiful boy," she said, 
seating herself on my bed, "who if he had 
lived would have been just your age, Allen. 
He was the only child I ever had, and he 
was the delight of my eyes, the pride of my 
heart; but when he was four years old — 
the brightest, loveliest little fellow you ever 
saw — he sickened of scarlet fever and died. 
I have never ceased to mourn for him," 



LIFE IN NEW YORK. 149 



she said, wiping the tears from her eyes ; 
" for life has been very lonely without him, 
— very lonely !" 

I felt a deep and respectful sympathy 
with her grief; but, as the thought of what I 
had become flashed across me, I exclaimed, 
" You should be glad he was taken away 
before he grew up. What if he had lived 
to become what I am, — a vile outcast, a — 

a " Sobs prevented my speech, and 

the bed fairly shook with my agony. 

"If he had, I should have loved and 
hoped for him still, Allen, — as I do for 
you. The first night I saw you I fancied 
you looked a little like my Edward, and 
my heart warmed to you ; and you have 
since almost taken the place in my heart 
which would have been his. Allen, you 
must not ruin yourself; for it would break 
your mother's heart, and it would sadden 
mine more than I can telL ,, 

How blessed and healing seemed to me the 
tears which fell from her eyes ! During all 
the years that have come to me since, amid 
all the changes they have wrought, I. have 
never been able to think of her kindness 
that Sunday morning without moist eyes 

13* 



150 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



and a grateful heart. I believe, under God, 
it was the means of saving me from some 
desperate deed. 

"You must not allow yourself to be 
ruined/' she continued, " or to lose your 
self-respect because you have once fallen. 
You have been very much to blame ; but 
this experience may be made a blessing to 
you. It may lead you to see your own 
weakness and seek for higher strength." 

When she left me it was to fall back into 
thoughts sad enough, but not so utterly 
despairing as those of the early morning. 
Turn which way I would, — to the old home, 
to my parents' counsels, my sister's tender- 
ness, my obstinacy in leaving them, my 
future prospects, — all was painful, all forced 
me to condemn myself. I was humbled. 
For the first time in my life, I felt I could 
not trust my own strength to save me from 
utter degradation and ruin. No one had 
urged me to drink. I had been led away 
by my own heedless impulses; and how 
could I know but I should be again, and 
that when temptation in any form assailed 
me I should not become a speedy prey ? 

Oh, how humiliating it was to remember 






LIFE IN NEW YORK. 151 



my boasting spirit, — the lofty ideas of my 
own manliness and heroism which I had 
revelled in ! J a hero ? J, who could not 
resist the first assault of temptation ? i, 
who had made myself a brute and worse 
than a brute ? I writhed in torture as such 
reflections seized me. I dared not look 
into the future. It seemed an abyss of 
misery into which I must inevitably plunge 
and sink lower and lower. 

Two resolutions grew up in the midst of 
these abasing thoughts. One was to tell 
Mr. Mather what had happened. I would 
not try to conceal it. I would be known 
for what I was and bear the consequences. 
If he dismissed me (and with the thought 
my heart leaped up at the idea of home, — 
but to go there in disgrace, to be sent 
home ! I could not bear that !) I would find 
some employment in the city, if I could 
with the blasted reputation I must now 
carry with me. 

The second resolution — one made most 
solemnly — was never to taste another drop 
of intoxicating liquor. I made it with a 
full conviction that it was for me the only 
safe course, the only security I could have 



152 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



that I should not become a miserable drunk- 
ard. My mother had wished me to make 
this promise before leaving home; but I 
laughed at the idea of any such restraint 
being necessary. Now I felt deeply that it 
was necessary; and I asked God to help 
me to keep that vow. Thanks to his great 
name, he has enabled me to keep it fully, 
for I have never since that hour lifted the 
wine-cup to my lips. 

I went down-stairs before tea ; and, find- 
ing Mr. Mather lounging on the sofa, I 
summoned all my courage to tell him the 
story of my shame. To my astonishment, 
he made very light of it, laughed immode- 
rately at my account of the whirling tables 
and faces, and, when I had done, said, — 

"Well, Allen, it's a bad thing to do,— 
very bad; but I reckon most youngsters 
have some experience of that kind. Why, 
I myself once got so tipsy I was brought 
home on a board ; and I don't think there's 
a more temperate man than I am anywhere. 
Don't look so down-hearted, boy. You must 
be careful not to spree it quite so hard next 
time : that's all." 

" Glad it happened Sunday," I heard him 



LIFE IN NEW YORK. 153 



mutter to himself. " Couldn't have lost a 
day very well." 

I had right feeling enough — thanks to 
my thoroughly sound home-training — to be 
disgusted with this mode of treating my 
conduct; and it gave me the first hearty 
desire I had felt to be free from Mr. 
Mather's influence. I had nothing to com- 
plain of in his usual treatment of me. In- 
deed, he seldom troubled himself about me 
in any way. But he was morally unsound, 
and I knew it; and I still retained sufficient 
respect for honour and integrity to be pained 
by this knowledge and to feel that he was 
not a suitable person to give me a desirable 
business education. 

The next morning I met the significant 
glances and gestures of Harry Lawson as I 
best could. At night I told him of my re- 
solution never to taste of ardent spirits or 
of any thing which could intoxicate. He 
ridiculed it most unmercifully ; said he had 
known such resolutions made by greenies 
before, but never knew one to keep them ; 
that I never should ; that I had too much 
spirit to be fettered in that way, and the 
like. Poor Harry! Well would it have 



154 TWENTY YEABS OP MY LIFE. 



been for him had he made a similar resolu- 
tion ! It would have saved him from early 
filling a drunkard's grave; for into such 
a one he went down long before he had 
reached middle age. Poor Harry! I say 
again ; for there was much that was praise- 
worthy and winning in his character ; but 
he had all his life been surrounded by cir- 
cumstances and examples the most unfitted 
to give him strength of principle. How 
can we wonder at his end ? 



REVIEW OE THE PAST. 155 



CHAPTER XL 

REVIEW OF THE PAST. 

The succeeding week was a very depress- 
ing, painful one. I spent my evenings at 
home, sometimes in reading to Mrs. Ma- 
ther, between whom and myself a new 
bond of union had sprung up, but oftener 
in my own room, taking very dark views 
of myself and of the future. I felt more 
and more that I had not sufficient strength 
of purpose to preserve myself from ruin. 
A shuddering presentiment came over me 
that I should fall ; that I should break my 
resolutions, as so many others had, and be- 
come as degraded as they, — perhaps like the 
most loathsome objects I had seen reeling 
through the vilest streets of the city ! 

Amid such gloomy forebodings came 
likewise a remembrance of the past from 
which I shrunk almost as painfully. My 



156 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



sins were "set in order before me." I saw 
that I had all my life long been living with- 
out God in the world. Though I had been 
more correct in outward deportment than 
some, and had never committed such gross 
sins, I saw it was because I had been re- 
strained by circumstances, not that the fear 
ot love of God had been in my heart. I 
had never sought to win his approbation. 
I had been filled inwardly with pride and 
self-conceit, — had been selfish, headstrong, 
obstinate, bent on self-gratification with- 
out reference to the happiness of others or 
my duties to them. I saw clearly how this 
selfishness of my heart, this want of love 
to God, lay at the foundation of all that 
was wrong in me. I read a great deal in 
my Bible, trying to get a true idea of its 
meaning; and when I saw how high and 
holy its standard was, how it required me 
to love God with all my heart and soul 
and strength, I felt how infinitely I had 
come short of it. I had never loved God 
at all or tried to please him, — had never 
sought his presence as I would that of a 
friend, never rejoiced at feeling he was 
near me. I had lived almost entirely for- 



REVIEW OF THE PAST. lSl 



getful of him ; and when thoughts of him 
and of my obligations to him had come to 
my mind, I had tried to banish them as 
soon as possible. They were not welcome, 
pleasant thoughts. Surely this could not 
be love. I knew what it was to love a 
friend, — my mother, for example ; to have 
my heart go out to her in gushing tender- 
ness, to feel a longing for her presence, a 
strong desire to tell her all I felt, to hear 
her voice, to receive her approbation and 
see her bright, loving smile. Could I 
have such feelings towards God ? I never 
had felt thus; and yet, if I loved him, 
should I not ? 

Such thoughts and feelings dwelt with 
me day after day and night after night, in 
the house, by the wayside, in the counting- 
room and in the stillness of my own room. 
I cannot doubt I was influenced by the 
Holy Spirit, — that he was seeking to win 
me aw T ay from my guilt and misery. I love 
to think he might have come to me in 
answer to the prayers which, I doubt not, 
went up perpetually from my mother's 
heart for the child she knew to be in peril. 

I was very miserable ; for I more and more 
u 



158 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



felt that I was alienated from God and 
goodness. More and more was I convinced 
that I had no power in myself to become a 
loving child of God. As I before said, I 
knew nothing of metaphysics or theologi- 
cal distinctions ; but this I knew and felt, 
that in my heart there was no true holiness, 
— in other words, no love to God; that, 
when I tried to become his loving child 
and to do his will, some obstacle seemed 
to stand between me and him. This was 
the unwillingness of my own heart, and I 
knew it; but there it w T as, — my rebellious, 
obstinate heart ! It would not yield ; and 
what could I do? I remember throwing 
myself on the floor in an agony of grief, — 
almost despair, — and saying, " Oh, if I could 
love God ! If I could love God !" I knew 
that he was good and kind and holy, — that 
I ought to love him ; but that did not pro- 
duce love. I could pray and read my Bible 
and refrain from outward sins ; but this was 
not loving God. In the midst of the most 
serious act of devotion there would some- 
times rise up strong within me the wish to 
be free from all such restraint, to throw off 
all thoughts of God and of my obligations 



REVIEW OF THE PAST. 159 



to him, and I would pause in horror at the 
mockery I had been guilty of. I did not 
wish to be holy. I really in the depth of 
my heart wished only for freedom to do 
just what I pleased; and could I deceive 
myself with the idea that I was loving 
God while I felt thus ? 

I do not remember feeling at this time 
any very definite dread of future punish- 
ment. My great fear was of my own weak- 
ness and guilty propensities. But the con- 
viction that I should go on from one stage 
of folly and guilt to another, in a rapidly- 
descending path, was what distressed me. 
I saw a life of holiness, — a bright, pure, ce- 
lestial path, which led up to God and hea- 
ven ; but I saw also that, instead of walk- 
ing in it, I should go farther and farther 
away into realms of darkness and degrada- 
tion. I felt convinced that I needed a radi- 
cal change in all my motives and desires 
before I could travel heavenward, and that 
I could not effect this change. Therefore I 
was miserable, — more miserable than words 
can express. 

As I look back upon my feelings at that 
period, (and they are too deeply engraved 



160 



TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



upon my mind ever to be forgotten,) I do 
not think I was unduly excited. It seems 
to me reasonable that an immortal being 
who sees before him two distinct destinies, 
one a life of love and joy, of purity and 
glory, which shall increase forever, the 
other a life of sin and darkness and ever- 
increasing vileness and pollution, and 
knows that he cannot avoid living in 
one of them through a whole eternity, — it 
seems to me, I say, reasonable that he 
should be excited in view of it to deeper 
emotions than have ever agitated him be- 
fore. It would be irrational not to be so 
excited. And if he feels that he is so fully 
under the control of evil habits and desires 
that he cannot free himself from their do- 
minion, but is lying a fettered bond-slave, 
too weak to break the chains that bind 
him, why should he not send forth from 
his inmost soul an agonized cry for help ? 
If there be any help in the wide universe 
of God, should he not seek it with more 
terrible earnestness than he ever sought 
any other good ? It is only those who have 
never felt the full value of a human soul, 
and its actual peril, who are surprised to 



REVIEW OF THE PAST. 161 



see anxiety, and even agony, on the face 
of a fellow-being who understands his true, 
condition. To lose an eternity of such 
glory as the redeemed shall know! Can 
the possibility of such a loss be thought of 
quietly and without emotion ? To suffer 
such shame and woe as the unredeemed 
shall experience in that world which the 
truthful Saviour called one of everlasting 
punishment ! Shall the bare thought of it 
enter the soul without rousing it to keen 
anxiety and dread ? 

I had no human counsellor to consult, 
no human soul into which I could pour out 
my sorrows ; and perhaps it was as well for 
me. I needed a new nature ; and could any 
earthly friend have given me one ? After 
this internal conflict had been endured se- 
veral days, I went on Sunday to church. 
There was nothing particularly adapted to 
my state of mind in the service ; and I re- 
member wondering why the preacher did 
not tell how a soul could be saved if there 
was any possible way in which it could be 
done, — as if I had not been told it a thou- 
sand times already ! 

I had heard of persons getting relief from 



162 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



the clear presentation of truth in the sanc- 
tuary, and had expected to hear something 
adapted to my wants,— something which 
would be like the voice of God speaking to 
my individual soul. When I came home dis- 
appointed in this, it was to throw myself on 
the bed and think over again how incapable 
I was of saving myself from sin and misery, 
to look once more shudderingly into the 
abyss which seemed inevitably to lie before 
me. Was there any way of 'escape from this doom ? 
I asked the question calmly, as a reasonable 
being should. Should I go to Jesus and 
ask his help ? I had prayed to him many 
times, and he had never seemed to hear 
me. Was there any Jesus, — any God? 
Did any being listen to my cry when I 
called out into the infinite space for help ? 
For a moment I felt that there was none, — 
no God to hear me, — to care for me, — to 
save me ! I was drifting alone on the wild 
ocean of life, — whither? Terrible loneli- 
ness! Unutterable! intolerable! It was 
but for a moment that my faith in a God 
wavered and went out; but I would not 
endure the agony of that moment again for 
worlds! It passed away; and the blessed 



KEVIEW JOF THE PAST. 163 



conviction that there is a God came into 
my soul and filled it, after that anguish of 
desolation, with a most precious hope. I 
felt there was a God rather than reasoned 
about it ; and, if there was a God who had 
made me, he could save me. I remembered 
that Jesus had said, "I am the way, the 
truth and the life : no man cometh unto 
the Father but by me." I would go to 
Jesus. In the whole universe there was no 
other being to whom I could go, — no other 
who could save me. 

I lay with my face on the pillow and told 
him all that was in my heart, — -just how 
miserable I was, how unable to do any 
thing to make myself better. " Thou, 
Lord, seest it," I said. "Thou knowest it 
all. Thou knowest I do not love thee nor 
desire to be holy; that I am very sinful and 
cannot change my heart. If thcxft. art a 
compassionate being, if thou dost love the 
creature thou hast made, have mercy upon 
me ! Oh, save me, if thou canst ! I cannot 
save myself; but wilt thou not save me ?" 

It was a wailing cry, wrung from a soul 
full of misery and doubt. Exhausted by 
emotion, I lay quiet, wondering whether 



164 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



Jesus would hear and help me ; and, as I 
thus wondered, the story of the leper, which 
I had learned at my mother's knee, came 
to my mind ; how he went in his vile 
loathsomeness to Jesus and said, "Lord, if 
thou wilt, thou canst make me clean;" and 
how "Jesus put forth his hand and touched 
him, saying, I will: be thou clean." I wept 
to think that the leper was healed ; that he 
could go on his way a cleansed, hopeful, 
happy man ; that Jesus was so good to him ; 
that he had put forth his hand and touched 
him. I loved Jesus for doing it. And then 
came the thought, — a blissful, heavenly 
thought it was! — "He will put forth his 
hand and touch me also. He will say to 
me y 'I will: be thou clean.' " Again I wept 
that Jesus was so good, so loving. I re- 
joiced that my soul was lying before him, 
so near that he could touch it ; that though, 
like the leper, it was very vile, he could say, 
"Be thou clean." It was a blessed thought 
that there was a Being in the universe who 
could make my heart clean, — who could 
"wash me, and I should be whiter than 
snow." My spirit lay wrapped in a sweet, 
heavenly peace, — so sweet, so serene and 



REVIEW OF THE PAST. 165 



satisfying I longed to continue enfolded in 
it forever. It was, I trust, the peace of the 
child lying on his father's bosom, returned 
from all his guilty wanderings, received, 
pardoned, blest, — the peace " of which the 
world knoweth not." 

As I lay in that sweet calm, many texts 
of Scripture came to my mind, — texts I 
had often thought of before, but which now 
were full of new meaning. Especially did 
this passage affect me : — "Wilt thou not cry 
unto me, My Father, thou art the guide 
of my youth?" Might I thus speak unto 
him? Would he be my guide? He, the 
pure and holy One, before whom angels 
veil their faces ? It was a thought too full 
of bliss to be real. I remembered those 
passages where Christ is spoken of as the 
Saviour of sinners. J was a sinner. Would 
he be my Saviour ? " He that cometh unto 
me I will in no wise cast out." What a 
full, precious assurance these words con- 
tained ! I read the parable of the Prodigal 
Son over and over, and wept as I read : it 
so exactly described me in my wanderings 
from God and my father's house. And 
should I not say, "I will arise and go to 



166 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



my father, and will say unto him, Father, 
I have sinned against heaven and before 
thee, and am no more worthy to be called 
thy son. Make me as one of thy hired 
servants."? How my heart swelled as I 
read how, "when he was a great way off, 
his father saw him, and had compassion, 
and ran and fell on his neck and kissed 
him" ! 

I was lost in these delightful views of 
Christ's love to sinners, when I was roused 
by the tea-bell. I would have preferred 
remaining alone, for I was afraid these de- 
lightful feelings might leave me if I went 
down; but I knew it was wrong to make 
others trouble; and, bathing my eyes and 
face, I went below, returning as soon as 
possible to my own room, — that room 
whose very walls now seemed pervaded by 
a spirit of love and peace. 

It never occurred to me that I had be- 
come a pardoned, renewed being, — that my 
heart had been changed. I was fully oc- 
cupied with thinking of the wonderful love 
and compassion of Jesus and the promises 
made to sinners in the Bible. It seemed 
full of just such assurances of forgiveness 






REVIEW OF THE PAST. 167 



as a sinful soul needed. How strange it 
was I had never felt them before ! I re- 
membered the fault-finding spirit I had in- 
dulged in, formerly, with shame. I saw that 
my Creator was also my Redeemer, — that, 
though I w r as a sinner, helpless and un- 
able to make myself better, it was to just 
such sinners Christ had spoken, asking 
them to come to him and be pardoned. I 
could not change my heart, but he could ; 
and he had said, "Come unto me, all ye 
that labour and are heavy laden, and I will 
give you rest." "Ask, and ye shall re- 
ceive ; seek, and ye shall find ; knock, and 
it shall be opened unto you." Why had I 
not at once gone to him for pardon and a 
new heart when I felt that I was a sinner ? 
In staying away from him, in not believing 
his words, had my greatest guilt consisted. 
Now I would go to him. I did believe he 
could save me, and that he would. At all 
events, I would throw myself at his feet, as 
did the leper, and say, " Lord, if thou wilt, 
thou canst make me clean." 

With this feeling of trust, I fell asleep. 
My last thought was a fear that when I 
awoke my new feelings would have gone. 



168 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



But, instead of this, when I first saw the 
morning light shining into my room, there 
came the sweet thought, " There is a Sa- 
viour who can pardon my sins !" Oh, how 
full of joy was this belief! How spon- 
taneously my heart went up in a song of 
praise to Him who had died for sinners ! 
Then came the delightful conviction that 
this Saviour would be my guide, — that I 
might ask him to be with me through the 
day, to keep me from sinning against him. 
And the thought that he would be with me 
wherever I went, that I might feel his pre- 
sence in the crowded streets and in the 
counting-room, — everywhere, — was one of 
the most delightful I had ever known. To 
have such a friend always near me, — one 
w T ho could give me right feelings and lead 
me along in the path to holiness and to 
heaven, — one who would never forsake me 
either in life, or in death, or in eternity, — 
oh, how fall of blessedness the very idea 
was! And yet was it not a reality? Did 
not the Bible assure me it was so? I re- 
collect the feeling with which I read a part 
of the fourteenth chapter of John that 
morning, and how remarkable these words 



REVIEW OF THE PAST. 169 



seemed to me: — "If a man love me, he will 
keep my words ; and my Father will love 
him, and we will come unto him and make our 
abode with him.''' And they seem no less 
wonderful words to me now, after having 
meditated upon them, from time to time, for 
thirty years. Will the Father and the Son 
indeed come and take up their abode in a 
poor, sinful human soul, — the God of whom 
it is said the heaven of heavens cannot con- 
tain him? Oh, mysterious, unfathomable 
truth ! who shall fully comprehend it? And 
yet what soul that loves God knows not 
something of its glorious significance? 

With what a new aspect does a human 
being, whose will and affections have been 
brought into harmony with God's will, re- 
gard life ! What new light and beauty rest 
upon it! President Dwight has said, "In 
my impenitent state I could never thank 
God for my creation, — only for preservation." 
And I doubt if a thinking person ever re- 
joices heartily in the existence conferred 
upon him till the soul has been brought 
into sympathy with God ; till the barrier 
which sin raises between it and the Creator 
has been broken down and it is filled with 

15 



170 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



a sense of forgiveness and a desire to live 
for God and immortality. Then the whole 
future becomes bright with the presence of 
G-odj as a Friend and Father, a Redeemer 
and Sanctifier. Life is to be lived under 
his eye, to be blessed with his smile, to be 
filled with joyful service rendered to him, — 
not only life in this world, but the incon- 
ceivable, eternal life which stretches out 
into the illimitable future. 



A NEW DECISION. 171 



CHAPTER XII. 

A NEW DECISION. 

At the breakfast-table that morning I 
wondered Mrs. Mather could look sad, 
the whole world seemed to me so full of 
brightness and beauty; for it was a world 
in which sin could be forgiven. As I went 
down the street, I rejoiced to find that the 
same indwelling peace which had filled my 
soul in the stillness of my own room re- 
mained with me in the noisy crowd; and 
the conviction that I might always carry it 
with me, and always feel the presence of a 
dear, invisible friend, again made my heart 
leap for joy. I remember, too, that as I 
was about entering upon the duties of the 
day, that morning, I felt as if every re- 
quirement of God was easy and delight- 
ful. I was to love him supremely and my 
fellow-beings as myself. What could be 



172 TWENTY YEARS OF MY- LIFE. 



more pleasant than this ? I had always 
fancied that to be religious was to be sad 
and sorrowful, to live apart from what was 
brightest and most interesting in the world 
around me ; but now I saw that it was only 
to carry into the world a new life within 
me which should lead me to be more 
deeply interested in others, more thought- 
ful of their happiness, more gentle, more 
patient, more industrious and more honest 
than ever before ; and, while trying thus 
to do his will, I might always meet the 
approving smile of my Saviour and my 
Friend. Even the dingy counting-room 
and the long, dreary desk wore a cheerful 
look that day, for here was where I was to 
work under the eye of this dear Friend. 

I spoke to no one of these new feelings. 
Many, I know, feel impelled to tell to all 
around them of the Saviour and his love- 
liness ; but my instinct was to remain silent. 
This deepest feeling of my heart seemed 
too sacred to be talked about, especially to 
those who would not sympathize with it. 
But in the evening I wrote a long letter 
to my mother. Ever since the night of 
my miserable intoxication, I had hesitated 



A NEW DECISION. 173 



whether or not to tell her of it. I knew 
well how her high standard of morality 
would lead her to regard it; and it would 
be giving a death-blow to my pride to con- 
fess it, though I felt as if it would be right 
to do so. But now I hesitated no longer. 
Painful as the thought of falling in her 
estimation was, I knew I deserved to ; and 
I would not be so cowardly as to shrink 
from it longer. I told her just what had 
taken place, without seeking to justify my- 
self. I told her also how degraded I felt 
afterwards, and how oppressed I had been 
with the sense of my own inability to with- 
stand temptation, — how I had seen that she 
was right when she sought to keep me 
from it, though at the time I had been wil- 
ful and blind. I told her, in conclusion, 
how I had determined to seek help from 
Jesus, believing that no other being could 
save me from utter ruin. 

"I feel, my dear mother," I said at the 
close, "that I am just like the prodigal son 
who wandered from his father's house, yet 
he was forgiven. Do you think I shall be ? 
Sometimes I feel as if my heavenly Father 
had forgiven me ; and it fills my heart with 

15* 



174 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



such a sweet joy I cannot express it. It 
makes me weep ; but they are not sad tears. 
How I wish Jesus would let me always 
keep very near him, that I might feel how 
kind and loving he is ! This morning I 
thought I should not forget him for a 
single moment all day long; but I did, 
and a great many wicked feelings came 
into my heart. I hope some time I shall be 
a Christian and learn to do his will. 

"And now, my dear parents, will you 
forgive me ? I have wandered away from 
your love and care, like the foolish prodi- 
gal. You know how wilful and disobedient 
I have been, — how ignorant and self-con- 
ceited. I am truly sorry for having dis- 
obeyed you so many times and for having 
given you so much trouble, especially at 
the time I came away from you. Will you 
forgive me for all I have ever done to 
trouble and grieve you and pray to God to 
forgive me also? I wish now to be obe- 
dient and to do just what you think is best. 
I will try to ' honour my father and mother' 
in future, though I have not in time past. 

"Please write me very soon, and tell 
me what you think about my staying in 



A NEW DECISION. 175 



New York. It is a very wicked place, and 
I know you did not want me to come, only 
I was so determined that you consented. 
Now, I do not wish you to be influenced by 
my feelings, but use your own judgment. 
I will go back and work on the farm if you 
think I ought to, and try to make my dear 
father and mother comfortable, and will 
never complain of my lot again. I feel as 
if it was easier to be good in the country 
than here. But God can help people to be 
good everywhere. 

"I want to see you both, and my dear 
little Susan, more than I can possibly tell, 
— more than I ever did in my life before. 
My best love to all ; and, hoping you will 
forgive all I have done that was wrong, 
"I remain your dutiful son, 

"Allen Richmond." 

That letter lies before me now. The 
paper is yellow and spotted, and the hand 
is the straight and rather cramped one of 
my boyhood. How it carries me back to 
the evening I wrote it and the little cham- 
ber in Street ! The eighteen-and-three- 

quarter-cents postage-stamp shows that let- 



176 TWENTY YEAKS OF MY LIFE. 



ters were then a more costly luxury than 
now ; and a tear-stain on its pages tells of 
the mother's tenderness, — that dear mother 
who so loved her truant boy, unworthy as 
he was ! 

Singularly enough, it happened that the 
very evening I wrote this my mother was 
writing me a letter which I received three 
days afterwards. It was as follows : — 

"My dear son Allen: — 

44 You have not answered our last letter; 
but I have something to write you of such 
immediate importance that I will not wait. 

"Mr. Sherman, of W , called to see 

us yesterday. He is, as you know, an old 
friend of mine, though I have seen little of 
him of late years. Some business brought 
him to Hillbury, and, as it was very stormy, 
he spent the night with us, after much per- 
suasion. We had pleasant conversation about 
past times and the companions of our youth, 
(many of whom, alas! have now departed 
this life,) and then we turned to the pre- 
sent. "While thus, conversing, your name 
was mentioned and your present place of 
abode. I told him I had many fears for 



A NEW DECISION. 177 



you, — the more because yon seemed to have 
few for yourself; that I had always secretly 
hoped you would have chosen to be a me- 
chanic, as I thought your natural capacities 
lay in that direction, from your having al- 
ways shown great skill and quickness in 
the use of tools and great ingenuity in con- 
triving and fitting together articles of use 
and ornament. I told him, further, that I 
had wished this also because an enter- 
prising, intelligent and upright mechanic 
belongs to that middle rank of life which 
has fewest temptations to evil and the 
greatest opportunity for being respectable 
and happy in this life and for preparing for 
the life to come. 

" ' Would you not rather he would be a 
successful merchant than a mechanic ?' Mr. 
Sherman asked, when I had said this. 

" On which I told him that the chances 
for success were few compared to those of 
failure, and that there was, it seemed to 
me, more in mercantile pursuits calculated 
to foster the desire for speedy and unlawful 
gain and the accumulation of wealth at the 
sacrifice of better and higher things than in 
most other occupations ; and that I feared 



178 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



the spirit of speculation and hazardous ad- 
venture, common at this day, and so much 
like gambling in its effect upon the mind 
and heart, might seize upon you, destroying 
your true peace of mind and stability of 
purpose ; and that I had rather see you pos- 
sessing a competence of worldly goods, with 
a well-ordered mind and a heart in love with 
nobler things, than the possessor of thou- 
sands, or even millions, with a soul full of 
worldliness and borne down with a load of 
business cares and perplexities, as is gene- 
rally the case with those we call successful 
merchants. And I went on still further to 
say (for my heart was in the subject) that I 
thought success in life really meant the at- 
tainment of a pure and rational enjoyment, 
and not merely the adding together of dol- 
lars and cents, with wearing labours and 
perplexities such as made life a burden 
heavy to be borne ; and that I had seen 
very rich men who were more to be pitied 
than the poorest I had ever known. 

" After I had so fully spoken my mind, 
Mr. Sherman said he thought I was correct, 
but that very few were of this opinion. 
After a little thought, he said, 'If you 



A NEW DECISION. 179 



would like your son to learn my business, 
I should be glad to take him, — that is, if he 
is a young man to be trusted, as I doubt 
uot he is. My business in Hillbury to-day 
was to get an apprentice of whom I had 
heard; but I have not succeeded. I would 
give your son a good chance, bringing him 
up to do plenty of hard work, to-be-sure, 
but, at the same time, to be honest and in- 
dustrious; and when he left me it would 
be his own fault if he did not earn a good 
living and make a respectable and useful 
citizen. But,' he added, with a smile, 'I 
think no lad who has been a clerk in New 
York will much relish the idea of coming 
back to be a country mechanic' And I was 
obliged to own I feared so too. Still, he 
said, I might make you the offer, and he 
would keep the place open till you decided. 
'But remember, Mrs. Richmond,' he said, 
'I can't have anybody who isn't willing to 
work in right good earnest. My shop is no 
place for a lad with white hands and a head 
full of foolish notions.' 

" So we parted, with the understanding I 
should write you about his proposal. It 
has seemed in some way impressed upon 



180 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



me that I should recommend this plan to 
you ; and I pray God, who knoweth all 
things, that he will direct you to the right 
decision. Mr. Sherman is a house-carpenter 
and joiner, doing a large and prosperous busi- 
ness, having about twelve men in his employ. 
He is a man of sound principles in every re- 
spect, of much good sense and uncommon 
intelligence. I think no man in the county 
is more respected than he. He has been 
repeatedly sent to the Legislature and filled 
other offices of trust in his native town. I 
certainly should feel more at ease if you 
were under his influence ; and I could wish 
nothing better for you than to become as 
"upright, intelligent and religious as he is. I 
suppose my ideas of things are old-fashioned 
and will sound strange to you ; but I can- 
not help reminding you that the pleasures 
and riches of this world are perishing, and 
that he is poor indeed who has not the 
blessing of God resting upon hini. If I 
could see you, my dear child, walking in 
the way of holiness, seeking to do God's 
will and loving him with all your heart, 
I could cheerfully lie down in the silent 
grave, knowing that we should soon meet 



A NEW DECISION. 181 



again, to be no more parted. Will you 
not, before deciding this question, reflect 
seriously upon your duty, consider what 
you were made for and what a long immor- 
tality lies before you, and then pray God to 
enlighten your mind and incline your heart 
to do what is right in his sight? Your 
mother asks this of you, believing you will 
do it. 

" Mr. Sherman would want you to come 
to him early in May. He will give you 
your board, forty dollars the first year, 
sixty the second and one hundred the last. 
You would be just twenty- one when your 
term of service was completed. 

"All join in earnest love to you. Susan 
is almost wild at the thought that you may 
possibly be near us once more. 

"From your loving and anxious mother, 
"Mary Richmond. 

"P.S. — I must add one word to this long 
letter. I fear I have written as if I thought 
it were not possible for a merchant to be an 
upright and godly man. I do not feel so. 
I know there are many such, the ornament 
and pride of our country, her boast and her 

16 



182 TWENTY YEARS OP MY LIFE. 



glory. I only feel, in the anxiety of my 
heart, that the temptations to be otherwise 
are very great, — especially as you are situ- 
ated and with your ignorance of your own 
heart and the world. I tremble to think 
of you thus exposed, and long (perhaps it 
is with a woman's weakness) to see you in 
a safer shelter. Oh, my dear child, the be- 
loved son of my heart, if I were never to 
speak to you again, I would charge you to 
remember that character is of more con- 
sequence than possessions ; that the soul is 
of more value than the body ; that eternity 
is longer than time. Think of these things. 
"When you have decided, write 

" Your affectionate mother, 

"M. E." 

The perusal of this letter produced a con- 
flict in my mind. I wished to gratify my 
mother by a compliance with her wishes; 
but I did not feel inclined to become a me- 
chanic. There was something rather plea- 
sant in the idea of going back to the old 
homestead and working as a farmer; but to 

go to W , among strangers ; to be an 

apprentice, doing all kinds of low, vulgar 



A NEW DECISION. 183 



work; to be all my life a hard-working, 
rough-looking mechanic, who could never 
hope to rise to an equality with men of the 
first class in society, — this was far from an 
agreeable idea. There seemed to me some- 
thing demeaning in it. I had been so far 
affected by the state of feeling around me 
that I looked down upon those who toiled 
from day to day to earn their bread, and 
felt great self-complacency in my position 
as a merchant's clerk in a wholesale store, 
fancying I was quite elevated in the scale 
of being above what I called working-men. 
It was an absurd fancy; for, of all drudgery, 
that which confined me nine or ten hours to 
the desk was the most severe ; and I could 
not but confess it. But I had the feeling ; 
and, when I came to think seriously of 
leaving New York, I found, much as I had 
on many accounts disliked living there, the 
thought of leaving was painful. 

But the question arose, "Am I willing to 
do what is right? Am I willing to obey 
God, if it does cost a sacrifice of my 
dearest hopes? If it is his will that I 
should be poor and looked down upon by 
the world, can I submit to it? Am I to 



184 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



live for God or for myself?" I could not 
answer such questions without a struggle ; 
but I was at length enabled to say, sincerely, 
"Lord, if thou wilt show me the path of 
duty, I will walk in it, even if it be a pain- 
ful one, relying upon thine arm to sustain 
me." 

I look upon this decision as the turning- 
point in my moral history. It was in this 
form the question came to me: — " Will you 
have God to reign over you?" I did not 
decide what business I should follow, but I 
did decide by what principle I would in 
future be governed. I settled this point 
clearly in my mind, — that I would do what 
I believed to be my duty, let it cost what it 
might. I came to this conclusion soberly, 
after mature deliberation. God had created 
me ; he had a right to control my actions ; 
his requirements were all just and kind, 
and obedience to them was the duty of a 
reasonable, accountable being. I therefore 
gave myself to him, to be guided hence- 
forth by him in all things for evermore. 
This consecration was, I believe, as entire 
as if I had decided to go on a foreign mis- 
sion or to prison for his sake ; and I cannot 



A NEW DECISION. 185 



but remark, in passing, that I believe this 
self-denial is the only source of true Chris- 
tian joy. There may be ardent, delightful 
feeling which seems like Christian love and 
gratitude ; but, if it is not accompanied by 
a thorough self-consecration, — a thorough 
abjuring of self as the principle of action, — 
it will pass away like the morning cloud. 
" He that loseth his life for my sake shall 
find it," said Jesus. But he that clingeth 
to life — the old, selfish, godless life — shall 
lose that life of God in the soul which 
Christ gives to his disciples. 

I have said this decision was not easily 
made. It cost me hours of severe mental 
conflict, — hours of earnest prayer for grace 
to strengthen me. It was like cutting off 
the right hand or plucking out the right 
eye ; for I laid on the altar every ambitious 
hope and every plan for self-aggrandize- 
ment, praying only that I might be a child 
of God, meekly receiving from him what- 
ever earthly good he saw fit to bestow, and 
that, when life on earth was over, I might 
go to dwell with him forever. It was a 
blessed decision. It brought me into har- 
mony with angel and archangel, cherubim 

16* 



186 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



and seraphim, who all serve God day and 
night. It gave me an object to live for, a 
work to do ; and the object was an elevated 
one and the work such as an immortal 
being could feel was worth accomplishing. 
With this purpose to serve God in my soul, 
I could go forth into life free from all the 
trammels which sin imposes upon her vo- 
taries, — a truly free man, with nothing to 
fear, for God was my chosen master and his 
service was perfect liberty. Oh, how often 
since, when I have seen political parties 
contending fiercely for victory, each with 
the sacred name of Freedom stamped upon 
its banner, have I longed to have this great 
truth enter into their souls, that only in 
serving God was ever true freedom found 
by a human being, and that while they were 
slaves to their own vile passions they would 
be unable to conceive even of the true joy 
and glory of actual freedom ! 

' « He is a freeman whom the truth makes free, 
And all are slaves beside," 

is an axiom few seem willing to acknow- 
ledge in the heat of controversy ; yet every 
Christian must have felt in his heart that it 



A NEW DECISION. 187 



was a truth of deep and broad signifi- 
cance. 

But I am wandering. 

When this great principle of future ac- 
tion was settled, there came the minor one, 
" Shall I accept or reject Mr. Sherman's 
proposal?" I looked up to God for guid- 
ance, and felt an unspeakably-sweet satisfac- 
tion in yielding my will to his. Of one thing I 
felt sure, — that it was not my duty to remain 
with Mr. Mather. Facts which had recently 
come to my knowledge had convinced me 
that he was doing business as no truly up- 
right man would, and I might be required 
at any time to aid in a system of fraudulent 
dealing, — nay, perhaps was doing it daily. 
Should I become a mechanic, or try to se- 
cure a situation as clerk in some other es- 
tablishment in the city ? My selfish wishes 
were in favour of the latter; yet, when I 
looked at the young men I knew, who were 
filling the places of clerks, either as book- 
keepers or salesmen, I was constrained to 
confess that they were surrounded by influ- 
ences unfavourable to the development of 
Christian character. I was not aware that 
I had any peculiar adaptedness to mercan- 



188 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



tile life ; and yet I might succeed and rise 
if I continued in it. If faithful and enter- 
prising. I might gain the confidence of my 
employers, perhaps secure a good partner- 
ship, and become an honourable, wealth 
Christian merchant, using all my extended 
influence for doing good. Such an end 
seemed most desirable as I looked forward 
to it. 

If I went to W , I should be almost 

sure of becoming a good mechanic; for I 
felt that my mother was right in thinking 
I had a natural tact in the use of tools. I 
should be exposed to fewer temptations, be 
less swallowed up by the hurry of business, 
and probably live a quiet, honest, humble 
life, but not one of very enlarged means of 
influence. Looking thus at both sides of 
the question, I might have been undecided 
as to what was my duty had not my mo- 
ther's wishes come in as a weight to turn 
the scale. It was certainly a duty to honour 
my parents by a compliance with their de- 
sires ; and, if it required a sacrifice of my 
personal preferences, it was no less a duty. 
The still, small voice within spoke dis- 
tinctly on this point; and it showed me, 



5 

d 



A NEW DECISION. 189 



also, that I was only giving up selfish de- 
sires for worldly position in yielding my 
preferences, — not any thing of a higher na- 
ture. It was my darling sin, — this pride, 
this desire to be admired and distinguished 
by my fellow-men ; but it should be given 
up. " Mind not high things, but condescend 
to men of low estate;" " Seek not honour 
from men, but that which cometh from God 
only," were texts which occurred to me ; 
and I received them as the voice of Q-od to 
my soul. I could not be wrong in yielding 
obedience to my parents and to the voice 
which spoke from God's holy word so 
plainly to my conscience. 

So I decided to leave New York, with all 
the brilliant hopes I had cherished of at- 
taining wealth and position there, and re- 
turn to the country, to become (if my life 
should be spared) a hard-working, humble 
mechanic. God saw this decision was made 
conscientiously, and his blessing rested upon 
it. I have never regretted it. I might have 
succeeded if I had stayed in New York, or 
I might have been unfortunate, living from 
hand to mouth on a clerk's salary all my 
days, confined to the wretched atmosphere 



190 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



of some narrow street and worn out pre- 
maturely with care and anxiety. I cannot 
tell. I only know I did what then seemed 
to me right, and have lived a quiet and, I 
trust, useful life among the fresh, healthful 
influences of the country. I have been 
blessed in my labours, have attained to a 
competency of worldly treasure, and have 
now a heart running over with gratitude 
for the unbounded goodness which has 
always protected and guided me. 

I informed Mr. Mather of my decision 
immediately; and, though I felt under no 
obligation to stay, (as it had been under- 
stood I was to leave if I wished, being 
there only on trial,) I offered to remain till 
he found some one to take my place, as I 
washed to be honourable in the matter. To 
my surprise, Mr. Mather appeared much 
offended. He called both me and my pa- 
rents very uncivil names, and used a good 
deal of profane language, concluding by 
saying, " The sooner I get rid of such a 
fool the better. I don't want you to write 
another line in my office. I won't let you 
write one. No, not a single word more !" 
And, muttering something about never 



A NEW DECISION. 191 



having any thing to do with a relation 
again as long as he lived, he left the room. 

I was truly grieved by his regarding it in 
this light, for I thought he had meant to 
treat me kindly, and had desired my suc- 
cess, according to his idea of the word. 
But it could not be helped ; and, painful as 
this interview was, it was our last, for we 
never met again. 

It was with very different emotions I 
communicated my plans to Mrs. Mather, 
for I felt sad to part from her and fancied 
she would regret my departure ; but she 
expressed only satisfaction. 

"I am really glad, Allen," she said, "that 
you are going. I shall miss you sadly; but, 
dearly as I love you, or rather because I 
love you, I do not wish you to stay here. 
I have been so afraid you would fall a prey 
to the temptations around you ; for they are 
greater than you dream of. It seems almost 
impossible to avoid becoming, in some form 
or other, dishonest and corrupt in this great 
city. Sometimes," she added, sadly, "I fear 
that things are not going on as they should, 
and that trouble is coming upon us ; but 
perhaps it is only because I am weak and 



192 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



nervous. I shall rejoice to feel that you 
are safe. I shall always love you as if you 
were my own son, and I hope you will 
sometimes think of me, for I am often very 
unhappy in the midst of all our seeming 
prosperity." 

We both wept; and I felt then, as I had 
often and often felt before, often and often 
since, that external means of enjoyment, so 
much coveted by the beholders, may cover 
a most sad, miserable heart. 

I may as well say here that, in less than 
a year from this time, the firm of Ostrander, 
Mather & Co. were suspected of making 
fraudulent returns by a company who had 
employed them to effect their sales, and, on 
an investigation, Mr. Mather fled from the 
city to elude his pursuers, who were deter- 
mined to bring him to justice. Mr. Os- 
trander the elder was in Europe at the 
time, and the younger brother, who was 
indicted for swindling, was at length dis- 
charged, he having been only a tool in the 
hands of others. Mr. Mather lived about 
two years in one of our Southern cities, 
where he died suddenly of brain-fever. 

I can conceive of no sadder life than his, 



A NEW DECISION. 193 



a life destitute of all right principle and all 
true enjoyment; a life full of uneasiness, 
even when it was most successful, and which 
crushed all nobleness out of his nature, leav- 
ing only a shattered wreck of talents wasted 
or misapplied. Wretched life ! and a still 
more wretched preparation for the endless 
life hereafter ! 



194 



TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



CHAPTER XHL 



THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW. 

I left £sTew York the first day of May. 
I had parted with my acquaintances in a 
friendly way, and with Mrs. Mather, my 
one friend, with sincere regret. As I stood 
on the deck of the steamer when it glided 
out of the harbour, and looked back on the 
great city in the clear light of that beauti- 
ful spring morning, I felt like one awaking 
from a feverish dream. The city, with its 
eager crowds, its perpetual din, its great 
throbbing life, so splendid and imposing on 
the surface, so wretchedly revolting and 
black in the currents which flowed beneath, 
seemed to me something unreal. It would 
henceforth be to me only a wild, confused 
vision, — something in which I had no part- or 
lot. I w r as willing it should be so, — willing 
that my lot in life should henceforth be a 






THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW. 195 



quiet and obscure one. Yet never could 
those three months of my life be forgotten. 
Amid the distractions of that great chaos, 
God's voice had reached me and taught 
me to know myself. I had needed such an 
experience to humble me, to sober me ; and 
I could not look back upon the way in 
which God had led me, without an over- 
whelming emotion of gratitude to Him who 
had rescued me from the perils into which 
I had plunged so recklessly. Yes, there 
was one tie which would forever bind me to 
New York : it was my spiritual birthplace. 
I watched it till not a vestige was visible, 
lifting my heart in prayer for those who 
were still encompassed by its temptations, 
imploring that to them God would draw 
near in power and rescue them, as I hoped 
he had rescued me. 

As we sailed over the clear sparkling 
water that morning, and I inhaled the fresh 
breeze that blew across it, a burden rolled 
off from my heart, and it sprang up, elastic 
and joyous, to meet the future. I was going 
forth, under God's, eye, to work and suffer, 
perhaps, but never alone. If I was obscure 
and unnoticed among men, I might secure 



196 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



the approbation of God; and, as I leaned 
against the railing of the promenade deck, 
a rich current of joy flowed over my soul, 
and I anew consecrated myself to God's 
service and breathed a prayer for strength 
to fulfil the vow. 

The sail over the Sound was delightful ; 
and when we entered the river at Saybrook, 
it was a perpetual feast to gaze upon the 
hills and meadows on its banks. After my 
three months' confinement in the city, na- 
ture was lovelier than ever. Never before 
had grass looked so green or trees half so 
stately or wide-spreading. To just breathe 
the air wafted from a thousand blossoming 
trees was luxury enough, and I revelled 
in a delicious indulgence of every sense. 
Then came a vision of home, and my heart 
bounded at the thought of so soon seeing 
my parents and Susan. There were no 
railroads then, and it was almost night 
when we reached Hartford. The next 
morning was bright as a May morning 
could be, and the ride in a stage-coach 
through that beautiful Connecticut valley 
was very charming; but my heart grew 
impatient with its home longings, and we 



THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW. 197 



seemed to move very slowly, especially 
after we entered upon the hilly country 
back from the river. But the hours passed, 
and by degrees we neared the beloved 
spot: things began to wear a familiar as- 
pect, and, slowly as we moved, before sun- 
set we rattled up to the post-office in dear 
old Hillbury. I could not wait, but, jump- 
ing off, I ran up the hill on foot. My heart 
throbbed painfully as I came in sight of the 
bouse. What if something should be 
wrong there ? How still it was about the 
yard ! How familiar the old oak-tree 
looked, and the lilac and white-rose-bush, 
and the little chickens peeping in the grass ! 
With a trembling hand I raised the latch : 
no one was in the kitchen; but the bed- 
room door opened, and I was in my 
mother's arms ! My dear, dear, mother ! 
how she wept as she pressed me to her 
heart in that long, blissful embrace ! For a 
time neither of us could speak; but, after 
becoming a little composed, each of us had 
much to tell. There was nothing wrong at 
home : my father had gone for the cows, 
and Susan was taking tea with a neighbour 
and would be home before dark. Home, 



198 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



home, home ! how delightful it was to be 
there ! how sweet to look round the room 
and see just the same articles of furniture, 
all so plain and old-fashioned, but all so 
very dear to my heart ! 

"When the excitement of the meeting had 
passed off a little, I saw my dear mother 
looked thin and pale. She said a cough 
had troubled her all winter, but it was 
better since the warm weather, and seeing 
me would complete the cure. The meeting 
with my father was just as joyous; and 
when, after tea, I went for Susan and met 
her at the foot of the hill, my rapture was 
complete. " Little Susan" we all called 
her, as a term of endearment ; but she was 
fast growing into quite a tall young woman, 
and I thought that in all New York I had 
seen nothing lovelier than her rosy face 
lighted up with joy at seeing me. 

I was obliged to confess to myself the 
house looked smaller than it used to, and 
the little kitchen lower and darker, especi- 
ally at evening, when the contrast was very 
striking between gas-light and one flicker- 
ing tallow candle; but there was such 
sweetness in the affection of home, and in 



THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW. 199 



its perfect communion of heart with heart, 
which I had found nowhere else, that the 
want of little conveniences was not seriously 
felt. I had not lived long enough amid the 
refinements of life to make them necessi- 
ties ; and I easily fell into all my old habits. 
The only thing that cast a shadow on the 
joy of my heart was my mother's manifest 
feebleness. She seemed in no wise anxious 
about herself, and often said she had never 
been so happy; but I found Susan shared 
in my anxieties. The pale, thin features, 
which every day looked more wan and 
wasted, the dry, short cough, the occa- 
sional bright flush upon the cheek, were 
all dangerous symptoms, we knew. Yet 
we were too light-hearted to dwell upon 
the dark side of the picture : so we hoped 
— nay, said over and over to each other we 
were sure — she would be quite well again 
now the cold winds had gone. My home- 
coming had seemed to give her new life 
and to fill her heart with joy; and I can 
never cease to be grateful that I did come, 
if it were only that it gave this added 
brightness to her life. My reckless, un- 
grateful spirit and my leaving home had 



200 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



been a heavy blow to her ; and I shall al- 
ways feel that it hastened the disease which 
was now silently exhausting the springs of 
life. 

It was arranged by Mr. Sherman that I 
should come to him the 1st of June; so 
that I had four weeks at home. What de- 
lightful weeks they were ! How I love now 
to look back upon them ! This period was 
made peculiarly sacred to me by the con- 
fidential intercourse I had with my mother. 
"What precious talks we had at night after 
the rest had left us, when we opened our 
whole hearts to each other and tasted, to 
the full, the bliss of communing together ! 
Is there any affection — any earthly affection 
— sweeter than that between a mother and 
a grown-up son ? It seems to me there are 
peculiar elements in it which make it al- 
most more sacred than any other, — espe- 
cially when, as in my case, there had been 
a transient alienation. 

Those wise and strengthening words, 
spoken so tenderly to me then, will always 
abide with me. They have deterred me 
often from yielding to evil suggestions, and 
proved an incentive to high and holy pur- 



THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW. 201 



poses. If I bless God for any earthly pos- 
session, it is for the legacy of the pure 
example and of the wise and quickening 
^rords which my mother bequeathed to me. 
It is an incorruptible, enduring and in- 
creasingly-precious inheritance. 

The reserve of my mother's nature seemed 
to hate melted away ; and she told me of 
her pa^t struggles and of her present peace 
with great freedom. Yes, I shall always 
rejoice that my mother was then at peace. 
Nothing troubled her. The debt upon the 
farm was almost cancelled ; Susan was 
grown so string and so willing that she 
relieved her o£| all household cares ; I was 
to be near her^and we often laid plans for 
the future as gajfly as if we were all chil- 
dren. How she was to live with us, and 
fold her hands in rfcer old age, while we 
worked for her. Hqw she was to lay aside 
all care and sit in a gfeat rocking-chair all 
day long, knitting and; reading, — the two 
great luxuries, as we ifpew, of her simple 

life. -oq: 

Very often she talked, ifcQ,o, of the rest 
beyond the grave. How sweet it would be 
to us when the labours of lifg>were all over, 



202 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



— its duties all done ! The thought of enter- 
ing into that rest was evidently very plea- 
sant to her ; but we hoped it would be long 
before her wings would be grown and 
plumed for a heavenward flight. 

I required a little fitting-out for my new 
employment. The nice New York suit of 
clothes would last me a long time for my 
best ; but I had another, made by the Hill- 
bury tailoress, of coarse material suitable 
for work. I cannot help smiling now when 
I remember the feelings I had about this 
suit. I was just at the age when a young 
man is most sensitive about personal ap- 
pearance; and, as I had been somewhat 
flattered about mine, a foolish vanity had 
crept into my heart, and there was really 
no trial connected with my change of busi- 
ness so mortifying, so hard to submit to, as 
the putting on of those ill-made, coarse 
garments. I should have blushed to own 
it, even to myself; but it was a fact, and I 
had to bring all the strength of my prin- 
ciple to bear upon it before I could over- 
come the repugnance I felt to wearing 
them. Our crosses often come in a shape 
others little dream of; and thej^ are none 



THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW. 203 



the less crosses for being trivial in the sight 
of others. 

My vanity had been fostered by the kind- 
ness of my old Hillbury neighbours, who, 
in the simplicity of their hearts, commented 
on my improved appearance ; and (I am 
ashamed to remember) I was conscious of 
being the "observed of all observers" as I 
walked up the aisle in the old church on 
Sunday morning. Oh, how miserably weak 
is the human heart, which can carry its poor, 
paltry distinctions into the temple of the 
Most High God and pollute its offerings 
with such mean thoughts of self! But I 
did struggle to overcome it, — though for 
years this silly pride was a hydra-headed 
monster which was springing up into fresh 
life after every defeat. 

Another memorable incident of this visit 
was my reading the life of Benjamin Frank- 
lin, written chiefly by himself. It produced 
a powerful impression on me, giving me a 
higher respect for mechanics and rousing 
my ambition to become something more 
than merely a good workman. I resolved 
to imitate him in spending my leisure hours 
in study and in attempting to acquire a good 



204 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



style in writing. My mother wished me to 
keep a little journal for her; and I deter- 
mined to do so, for my own improvement 
as well as her pleasure, — a determination I 
carried out, and to which I attribute what- 
ever freedom of expressing my thoughts in 
writing I may possess. 

The time for leaving home again had 
come. The pleasant meetings with friends, 
the rambles about the farm and pasture 
and the sweet hours of sacred home-enjoy- 
ment were all over; and on the first day of 

June I started for W . The parting 

was a very different one from my last. 
There was as much tenderness, and far 
more confidence, in my mother's parting 
embrace ; and a bright light beamed in her 
eye as she whispered, " I am sure you will 
try to do your duty, Allen, and that God 
will bless you." And Susan said, "It 
scarcely seems like losing you now, you 
will be coming home so soon !" 

So all was as cheerful and sunny in our 
hearts as in the sky above us. My father 
was to take me over in his wagon, and we 
rode together in the freshness of that early 
morning through the pine-woods gemmed 



THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW. 205 



with dew and scattering their delicious fra- 
grance, while far oft' in the heart of the 
forest rung out tuneful and clear the note 
of the wood-robin, — that most spirit-stirring 
of all wild-wood melodies ! My heart was 
peaceful and joyous; for I could say, as I 
gazed w r ith delight on every thing around 
me, — 

"My Father made them all !" 

It was inexpressible joy to know I had 
such a Father, who would be with me al- 
ways ; and again I renewed my consecra- 
tion to his blessed service. I was not going 
into a new place, among new duties, alone, 
but a wise and powerful Friend went with 
me ; and the thought of it was full of sweet- 
ness. 

It was a charming ride, and we talked of 
many bright and pleasant things. I had 
often been in W , as it was the shire- 
town of the county and the market for the 
farmers' produce. It was a large, hand- 
somely-built and wealthy town, having a 
good many old families, who prided them- 
selves on their birth and intellectual culture. 
The distinctions and customs of society 

18 



206 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



there were almost as unlike those of Hill- 
bury as were those of New York itself; and 
when I was a boy I used to feel an admiring 
awe as I rode past the beautiful mansions, 
surrounded by cultivated grounds, and saw 
gentlemen and ladies walking in them. 
There were handsome stores and offices in 
the centre of the town, which we passed 
to reach Mr. Sherman's house. As we 
drove by them, I sighed to think I should 
be looked down upon by the young men 
in them ; but I had determined to rise 
above all such thoughts, and I succeeded to 
a certain degree. By this time I had found 
I should need all my courage and heroism 
in the conflict with my own evil passions ; 
and, as my mother had so long before 
wished, I resolved to be a good soldier and 
carry a brave heart into the warfare. I 
would respect myself while I conducted 
well, and try to merit, if I did not receive, 
the respect of others. But it was not easy 
for me to be humble ; and only as I prayed 
for strength from on high could I take my 
true position as an apprentice to a carpenter. 
Mr. Sherman gave us a cordial welcome. 
He was a fine-looking man of about sixty, 



THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW. 207 



with a piercing gray eye and features which 
indicated both firmness and benevolence. I 
found I was not to board in his family, but 
with a widow near by. 

After a little conversation, he went 
over to the shop with my father and me. 
It was a large building, with every con- 
venience for his business. The working- 
room was full of men busily employed; 
and it had a very cheerful look, with all 
its windows open, letting in the bright- 
ness of that summer morning. Long work- 
benches were arranged around it, and there 
was a busy sound of planes and chisels, 
with now and then sharp-ringing blows 
from hammers wielded by vigorous arms. 
The odour of the pine-wood on which they 
were working was very pleasant, and every 
thing looked clean and orderly. 

"Here, my men, is our new apprentice, 
Allen Richmond," said Mr. Sherman, in 
his frank, pleasant voice. " I hope he will 
like us and make as good a workman as 
the best of you." 

The resolution to become such which was 
swelling in my heart showed itself, I think, 
in my face ; for he added, — 



208 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



" Yes, I see you mean to be ; and that is 
one great secret of success. He will com- 
mence work to-morrow morning. I shall 
put him under your instruction, Mr. Carr. 
I know you have patience with begin- 
ners." 

Mr. Sherman then examined some of the 
work with his keen, practised eye, some- 
times commending it and sometimes sug- 
gesting improvements. It was easy to see 
he had the respect and confidence of his 
men ; and my estimate of a good mechanic 
again rose as I saw the influence he pos- 
sessed over them. 

"I have only a few rules," he said to me ; 
"but those I expect to be strictly observed. 
The first is, perfect obedience to the orders of 
your superiors. There must be system in a 
place like this : some must plan the work, 
and all must unite in carrying out the plan. 
If you consider yourself wronged in any 
way, come to me openly. I want no cabals 
among my men, — no underhand talking 
over supposed grievances till they get 
soured and cross. If there is just cause 
for complaint, it shall be corrected. No- 
thing, however, is more unmanly than a 



THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW. 209 



fault-finding spirit. I am glad to say there 
is little of it among my men. 

"My second rule is, strict punctuality. 
"When told to do a thing, do it at once. 
If you dawdle round half an hour, or even 
ten minutes, before commencing it, others 
will be delayed by your negligence, and 
others still by their's, till every thing gets 
behindhand. I owe my success in business 
more to this one thing than any other, — 
punctuality in meeting appointments and 
in doing what I had promised promptly. 
A tardy, slack mechanic will be certain to 
be a poor one. 

"My third rule is, keep every thing in its 
place. The apprentice who mislays his 
tools or his piece of work will annoy others 
as well as waste his own time. A thing 
which isn't in its own place is in a place 
where something else belongs ; and confu- 
sion begun in one corner of the shop will 
soon be felt all round it. My men pride 
themselves on keeping a neat-looking shop ; 
and each must help to keep it tidy. I be- 
lieve," said he, laughing, "the reason I 
have such a good-natured set of workmen 
is, that they are required to be so orderly. 



18* 



210 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



Half the fretting there is in this world 
grows out of the disorder and confusion we 
find in our homes and places of business." 
The bright response on the faces of the 
men showed they agreed with him. "Here, 
Richmond, you have my three shop-rules : — 
Do what you are told when you are told, and 
put things in their places. Easy to remem- 
ber and easy to obey. For the rest, ' Strong 
arms, bright faces and brave hearts' is our 
motto." 

There was a hearty frankness in his man- 
ner which showed he had confidence in his 
hands and they in him. I felt that first 
hour in his shop that both mental and 
moral excellence went to make up an in- 
fluence like his ; and the more I knew of 
him the more I saw that sound judgment 
and high principle, as well as mechanical 
skill, were prominent traits in his character ; 
and a noble character it was, — worthy of 
all reverence. 

"I usually," he said to my father, after we 
left the shop, "give a beginner a few hints 
on propriety of manners ; but I am sure 
your wife's son cannot need them. He will 
not be speaking rudely and boisterously in 



, 



THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW. 211 



the shop, or be guilty of indecorous beha- 
viour anywhere." 

My dear, good mother ! how her example 
benefited me everywhere I went! 

After dinner, my father bade me farewell. 
I was once more thrown upon myself, — 
once more beginning the world ; and this 
time I felt confident I was commencing 
upon the business of my life. 



212 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

MY JOURNAL. 

"June 2d. — I will begin this journal for 
you to-night, dear mother, though there is 
not much to put in it. Father told you 
about my room. It is not very pleasant, 
but I shall find it comfortable, I think. 
The name of my room-mate is Williams. 
He is three years older than I am, and on 
his last year as apprentice. He says most of 
the apprentices become journeymen in the 
shop after they learn the trade. He is short 
and thick-set, but has a sensible face. After 
dear father went away I felt a little blue, 
and went to my trunk to take out my 
clothes. How nicely you had packed 
every thing, dear mother ! and in the 
middle of it I found that beautiful copy 
of Cowper's poems from you and the 
pretty handkerchief from Susan. My dear 



MY JOURNAL. 213 



mother and sister, how kind you were ! 
Seeing them was just like a sunbeam in a 
dark day ; and I felt so glad and grateful ! 
Your little note in the book was precious ! 
Oh, if I am not good, it will be my own 
fault. 

"I went to the shop about four o'clock 
to see how the work was carried on. Mr. 
Carr is the head-jourueyman, and they say 
is the best workman in the county ; and he 
is to teach me. I mean to try to please 
him and learn as fast as I can. I feel al- 
ready as if I should like working here bet- 
ter than writing in a dark, hot store in New 
York. 

"At tea-time there were eight at the 
table, — Mrs. Jones, the widow lady with 
whom I board, her daughter, two nephews 
of her's, who are clerks in stores, and four 
from our shop. I spent the evening in 
my own room, reading Silliman's Travels, 

(which, you know, Mr. H was kind 

enough to lend, me,) stopping pretty often 
to think of home. When Williams came 
up, I remembered what you said about 
prayers. I felt fluttered, and I am sure 
my face was very red ; but I finally found 



214 



TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



courage to open my Bible and say to hiin, 
4 1 always read a chapter before I go to 
bed.' Oh, mother, you can't think how 
much it cost me to say this, there was so 
much false shame in my heart, — as if any- 
body ought to be ashamed to read a chap- 
ter in the Bible or say his prayers ! Plow 
rejoiced I was when Williams said he al- 
ways read one too ! It did seem so good to 
have such a room-mate ! I think he was 
glad too; for he said his last one always 
ridiculed it, and sometimes he omitted it, 
though he knew it was very wrong. So 
we sat, side by side, and read, and then he 
offered a prayer, for he is the oldest, and 
we have determined to take turns. Then 
we lay down with such happy hearts ! How 
good God is ! 

"Williams's mother is a widow and very 
poor, and he is the oldest of seven children. 
I guess he is a good young man, for he 
seems to love his mother dearly. This 
morning I was up before sunrise. Wil- 
liams was sound asleep ; and so I dressed 
quietly not to disturb him, softly raising 
the window to let in the sweet breath of 
morning when I had finished. Then I sat 






MY JOUENAL. 215 



down to read my chapter. I prayed for a 
blessing on myself to-day and through all 
the time I stay here. I felt very peaceful, 
and very grateful too, I hope; though 1 re- 
member you said once to be grateful was 
different from being merely glad. I think 
I was both glad and grateful. How I 
thought of you all at home ! I hope you 
did not cough much last night. I heard 
the clock strike five just as I took up my 
book of travels to read, and I did not hurry 
my Bible-reading and prayers either. Wil- 
liams did not wake till the bell rung, fifteen 
minutes before breakfast, which is at six, 
and he had to dress in a great hurry and 
did not get down till we were half through 
breakfast. We went right to the shop, 
where I worked at planing boards till the 
town clock struck twelve, when we came 
home to dinner. We begin work at one 
and work till half-past five, and have tea at 
six. My arms and back were pretty tired ; 
but I shall get used to it. I was awkward 
about my work; and Scott (who is the 
apprentice next to me) kept laughing at 
my blunders and jogging the others to look 
at me. I felt myself getting very angry; 



216 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



but I shut my lips close together and said 
over the letters of the alphabet to myself 
without opening them. You know our 
minister said that was the way some old 
Greek philosopher did; and I thought then 
I would try it every time I felt angry ; but 
I almost forgot it. Then I thought how 
Jesus Christ was always meek when he was 
persecuted, and how he was seeing me 
every moment. I was glad I did not say 
a word, but Jesus saw what a dreadfully 
angry feeling there was inside. How shall 
I get rid of that ? 

"After tea I came to my room, and have 
been sitting here alone writing this. The 
bell is ringing for nine, and I will stop. 

"Sunday evening, June 6th. — I have been 
to church all day, and I like Mr. Dean very 
much. His text was, ' What shall it profit 
a man if he gain the whole world and lose 
his own soul?' It was a very solemn ser- 
mon, and I was sure no one could hear it 
without wishing to have something besides 
this world for his portion. He spoke very 
earnestly about what a terrible thing it was 
to lose the soul. I wish I could realize 
this more and more. 



MY JOURNAL. 217 



"I found it hard to keep the day as I 
ought to at home. In the morning, Scott 
and Palmer kept coming into the room ; 
and when they found us reading good 
books they ridiculed us, — Scott especially, 
—saying,— 

" ' La ! how pious we are, sitting up here 
with our Bibles in our hands ! Two such 
saints won't want to have any thing to do 
with us sinners V 

"I could scarcely keep from smiling; but, 
as Williams said nothing, I finally told them, 
'Yes; we do want to be quiet Sundays. I 
wish you would sit down and read, too.' 

" ' Oh, I guess we will all have a prayer- 
meeting in here ! Brother Palmer, will you 
take the lead?' 

"Palmer seemed less inclined to talk 
profanely, and said to Scott, 'You are too 
bad! let's go off'.' But Scott would keep 
running on in this strain, till I grew angry, 
and said, 'I wished he would leave the 
room. If he hadn't any religion himself, 
he need not interfere with those who had.' 
It was very wrong in me to be angry and 
boastful; and I felt reproved when Scott 

19 



218 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



" ' Oh, ho ! So our saints can get mad 
even to-day ! I wonder if it isn't as wicked 
to get mad as to talk and laugh a little bit.' 
And he went off, laughing. 

" This disturbed me very much. I was 
ashamed to be detected in anger, — more 
ashamed of it, I fear, than of the sin itself; 
for I was anxious to show them I was better 
than they. What a Pharisee I was, with 
that secret feeling of complacency and su- 
periority in my heart ! And now even they 
despised me ! It was a just punishment for 
my self-conceit. I went to church with my 
spirit ruffled by this little incident, and it 
was a long time before I could get com- 
posed. 

"Mr. Sherman provides a good pew for 
his apprentices in the church at which he 
attends. I stayed at noon, and Mr. Sherman 
took me into a Sunday-school class where 
were several young men of my own age. 
They are studying the Book of Daniel. I 
had no lesson ; but the teacher was very 
kind, and explained a good deal of it to 
me. Mr. Sherman has a class; and Wil- 
liams, too, has a class of little boys. 

"After service in the afternoon, I was alone 



MY JOURNAL. 219 



in my room ; and I felt very sad to think 
how many wicked feelings I had in the 
morning. Oh, mother! I don't believe I 
shall ever be good as others are who love 
Jesus ; and yet it seems to me as if I love 
him some and wish to please him. I had 
thought a great deal about Scott and 
Palmer during the week, and how I would 
try to do them good, — they are so wild and 
thoughtless ; and by getting so angry this 
morning I have lost their respect and now 
can't say a word to them. Then I am al- 
ways thinking of myself as better than 
they. I wish such wicked pride wouldn't 
come creeping into my heart all the time ! 
I could do nothing this afternoon but grieve 
over my folly and ask God to forgive me 
and teach me how to do right. Then I 
felt peaceful and happy. I rejoiced that I 
could go to Jesus for help, instead of ridi- 
culing prayer. But if I had been left to 
myself I should have been as trifling and 
unbelieving as Scott is. I do wish I could 
influence him to love the Saviour. He is 
very witty and bright, and not bad-tem- 
pered, exactly, — only always teasing some 
one or making sport. I can do nothing 



220 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



but pray for him. God's Spirit can make 
him love holiness. 

" Just as I wrote that last line, Scott came 
in. He seemed less wild than in the morn- 
ing; and, after chatting a little, I said to 
him, — 

" ' Scott, I am very sorry I was angry 
with you this morning. I wish I could 
learn to control my temper !' I believe my 
eyes filled with tears, for I felt very sad. 
Instead of laughing at me, as I expected, 
he said, — 

" 'Why, Richmond, you needn't feel bad 
about it. I was to blame for teasing you 
so ; but I can't bear hypocrites, and when I 
see people setting up to be so mighty good 
it always vexes me. Don't you suppose,' 
he added, after a little pause, 'that these 
pious people are pretty much like other 
folks, only they draw down their faces 
longer?' 

" 'Why, didn't you ever see a real good 
Christian, Scott?' I asked. 'Haven't you 
got a religious mother ?' 

"'No, I haven't!' he said, bitterly. 'I 
haven't got any mother. Mine died when 



MY JOURNAL. 221 



I was two years old. I have got a step- 
mother; but I hate her. She sets my father 
against me and tells him lies about me, and 
has driven me away from home to make 
room for her children. And she's one of 
your pious sort, too, with her face all drawn 
down, pretending she's dreadful good!' 

" ' Oh, she can't be a real Christian if she 
does such things,' I said. 'Christ tells us 
to be truthful and gentle and to love every- 
body. If you had such a good Christian 
for a mother as I have, you wouldn't think 
they were all hypocrites.' 

" 'I tell you what 'tis, Richmond, I don't 
believe in such things, because I never saw 
anybody much better off for their religion ; 
but if you do, I won't quarrel with you. I 
look at it as a weakness ; and I guess you'll 
outgrow it one of these days.' 

"'Oh, no, I sha'n't!' I said, earnestly. 'I 
know there's something real in religion, if 
I haven't got any myself.' And I could not 
help saying, i Oh, I wish you were a Chris- 
tian, — a real one : you would be so happy !' 

" ' Don't preach to me !' he said, angrily, 
knocking away the hand I had placed on 

19* 



222 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



his shoulder: 4 if I let you alone, you've 
got to let me alone too.' And he rushed 
out of the room, slamming the door behind 
him. 

"I am sorry I made him angry. I did 
not mean to. I am afraid I never shall do 
any good. I don't know how to, and al- 
ways do harm when I try. I wish you 
would pray for him, dear mother : it seems 
as if your prayers would be heard. He has 
got no mother to love him: so it isn't 
strange he is so far from what he should 
be. What should I have been without a 
dear, good mother ? Every day of my life 
I am more and more grateful for all your 
love and care. 

" Saturday night, June 12th. — The week has 
come to a close. Not much to tell of has 
happened; but it has been a very busy one, 
for all hands have been at work early and 
late on a house. I helped shingle it, and 
felt pride in running about on the very top 
ridge of the roof. When Mr. Sherman saw 
me there, he called out, sternly, ' Come 
down, Richmond!' and, when I obeyed, he 
said, ' Keep your agility till it is needed for 






MY JOURNAL. 223 



some useful purpose. Courage and reck- 
lessness are two things. Be fearless when 
it is your duty to go to dangerous places; 
but don't be fool-hardy.' 

"I have been too tired every night to 
write. I hope Susan got the letter I sent 
Monday. It has been fine weather, and I 
have enjoyed working out in the open air. 
There was a beautiful prospect of the river 
and the meadows from the roof where we 
worked. I don't think hard work hurts 
me. I sleep soundly all night, and wake 
up as bright as a new dollar in the morn- 
ing, ready for another day's work. I have 
read an hour before breakfast every morn- 
ing. Friday evening, Williams and I went 
to the weekly lecture in the vestry. 

" Svnday evening, — No one disturbed us this 
morning, and it has been a sweet Sunday. 
"Williams and I studied our Sunday-school 
lesson together after breakfast, and I am 
afraid I felt a little pride in having more 
knowledge of ancient history than he ; and 
in the class I tried to show oft' my learning 
by referring to what Eollin says of Nebu- 
chadnezzar, and felt flattered when the 



224 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



teacher said 'he wished they all would 
study the lesson as thoroughly as I did.' 
I am sure God was displeased at my pride. 
How shall I get rid of it? It is lurking 
slyly in every corner. 

"June 25th. — It is two weeks since I wrote 

here. I feel quite at home in W now, 

and begin to use different kinds of tools 
more easily. Mr. Carr says I am very 
handy with them. I like him very much. 
He talks very little, but is always pleasant 
and kind in showing me how to do differ- 
ent pieces of work and telling me why they 
are done so. He is very particular, and 
makes me do a thing over and over if it 
isn't exactly right. He has such a nice eye 
that he sees one hair's breadth of difference 
at a glance. Exact and thorough are his 
great words ; and he says no one can make 
a good workman who is not willing to take 
time to do every piece of work in the best 
possible manner; and when I sometimes 
get a little out of patience in going over 
my work so many times he laughs, and 
says he is going to make me the best work- 
man in the State. I mean to be ; for I feel 



MY JOURNAL. 225 



that I have in me the capacity for it. Is it 
wrong to wish to excel in one's business? 
4 Whatever is worth doing at all is worth 
doing well,' is a precept you taught me 
years ago, dear mother. 

44 Mr. Sherman is with his men about 
three hours every day, and overlooks every 
thing. He is so cheerful we all feel happier 
when he is there. 4 Heavy hearts and cross 
looks never yet accomplished any thing in 
this world,' he sometimes says; and he 
infuses his own joyous spirit into those 
around him. He takes an interest in each 
individual, always commending one who is 
improving or trying to. Yesterday he took 
up a door I had fitted together, and said 
that was quite workmanlike ; and when 
Mr. Carr told him he never had an appren- 
tice who managed tools better, — adding, 
4 He'll make a good workman,' — he looked 
as pleased almost as I felt. 4 It's worth 
trying for,' he said, in his cheerful tone. 
4 There's no man better off than a good, 
honest, industrious mechanic. By-the-way, 
I was very glad to see you in the Sunday- 
school, Richmond, for I want all my young 



226 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



men to be fitting for another world as well 
as this. This life is soon over; but the 
other lasts forever.' "When I came home 
the next day, I found a Commentary on 
Daniel in my room, and a line from Mr. 
Sherman, saying he would lend it to Wil- 
liams and me while we were studying that 
book, and hoped we should find it an as- 
sistance in getting our lessons. Was it not 
kind in him? What a different master 
from Mr. Mather ! 

"I like every thing but my boarding- 
place. Nothing is nice or clean. Mrs. 
Jones and her daughter wear a great deal 
of finery, and Julia, I believe, thinks she 
is pretty ; but her hair is always in a tangle 
in the morning, and her teeth and nails 
never clean. She looks down on us me- 
chanics, and only talks with the young 
clerks. They, too, give themselves airs, 
and are always ridiculing our shop-aprons. 
I wouldn't speak of such things, only they 
make me vexed and keep alive a bad spirit 
in my heart. Williams, who is a very sen- 
sible fellow, knows more than both of them ; 
yet, because they measure off tapes and rib- 



MY JOURNAL. 227 



bons behind the counter, they are thought 
much more of, and are invited into com- 
pany who would consider it a disgrace to 
have any thing to do with a mechanic. Is 
this right ? It really seems to me hard and 
unjust to all those who, while they work 
with their hands, have upright hearts and 
intelligent, well-cultivated minds. 

"You ask how I spend my evenings. 
Twice a week I go down town, — one even- 
ing to our Friday evening lecture, and one . 
to see what is going on and hear the news. 
I go with the other apprentices, most of 
whom go every night. One evening I have 
spent at Mr. Carr's, who has invited me 
each week. He has a very nice little house, 
prettily furnished, and quite a good collec- 
tion of books. He has a pleasant wife and 
three little children. I enjoy going there 
very much, — it seems so homelike. I wish 
he would ask Williams to go too, for I 
think he feels hurt that he doesn't, and I 
have sometimes fancied that he was less 
cordial than usual to me when I came 
home; but I cannot help it; and he ought 
not to blame me. The other evenings I 



228 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



am at home, reading or writing, unless I 
am too tired for it; but the evenings are 
short, and I go to bed early. 

"My best time for reading is in the morn- 
ing. I get up by sunrise, — often before, — 
which gives me time to dress carefully, to 
read my Bible, say my prayers and commit 
my Daily Food to memory, and half an 
hour or more for other reading before 
breakfast. I have just finished a volume 
<of travels, and am reading another which 
Mr. Carr lent me. I often wish I could 
read some of the fine descriptions of 
scenery aloud to you or Susan. "Williams 
never gets up till breakfast is ready; but 
he sits up at night and reads, — sometimes 
till midnight. 

"June 80th. — Oh, good news! good news! 
I am going home on Saturday. Mr. Sher- 
man said to-day that, as Monday was the 
Fourth of July, and, of course, no work 
could be done, those of us who wished to 
go home and spend Sunday could leave off 
work Saturday noon and go. He after- 
wards came to me and said he was sure I 
should like to see Hillbury by this time; 



MY JOURNAL. 229 



that a neighbour of his was going within 
four miles of you and would take me that 
far on my way Saturday afternoon; and 
that I could remain till Tuesday morning. 
< The sooner you are back that morning the 
better/ he said, smiling. 

"I believe I am the happiest fellow in 
the world to-night ! Hurra for the Fourth ! 
Oh, I am so glad I can see you all, — father 
and mother and darling Susan ! There's to 
be a grand parade here, a military proces- 
sion, and an oration ; and the Governor is 
expected. But I don't care. I would ra- 
ther see Hillbury — dear old Hillbury — 
than all the Governors in the world ! and I 
said so in the yard at tea-time. I wish, 
you could have seen the scornful curl on 
Adams's lip as he heard it. He is one of 
our dandified young gentleman-clerks. But 
I didn't care a fig for it. If he hasn't any 
mother or sister or home that's better worth 
looking at than all the troops and Governors 
in the State, I am sorry for him : that's all ! 
I thought Scott looked sad. Alas, poor fel- 
low ! he has no dear mother to go to ! 

"John Ames is going to Hillbury to- 
20 



230 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



morrow morning : so I will send this over 
by him. It isn't much like a journal, — 
more like a letter ; but you will excuse all 
its faults. Tell Susan to look out for me 
Saturday night." 



GOING HOME. 231 



CHAPTER XV. 

GOING HOME. 

It was with a light step and a heart brim- 
ming over with joy and gladness that I left 
the conveyance which had brought me on 
my way and walked the remaining four 
miles to Hillbury. The sky was cloudless, 
and over my spirit no coming sorrow cast 
its shadow ; yet, as I went up the hill and 
caught sight of the dear old brown cottage, 
I thought a strange stillness brooded over 
it. Nothing of Susan's bright face could 
be seen at door or window ; but I accounted 
for this by my having come very early. As I 
passed it at the gate, the dear child opened 
the door; but her eyes were red and swollen 
w T ith weeping, and when she saw me she 
could only throw herself into my arms and 
burst into passionate sobs. "What had hap- 



232 TWENTY YEARS OP MY LIFE. 



pened ? My mother ! — was it my mother ? 
Yes, it must be ! I knew it was. I knew, 
without being told, that my mother was 
dead ! and I leaned against the door for 
support, utterly unable to speak or move. 
Controlling herself somewhat, Susan said, — 

" Oh, Allen, I am so glad you have come 
before it was too late !" 

" Then she is not — not dead?" 

"No; but she is only just alive. She 
can't speak ! She won't know you !" And 
again her tears flowed in a torrent. 

My father came, and, pressing my hand 
fervently, said, — 

" This is a sad welcome, Allen ; but I am 
glad you have come. I wrote last night to 
hasten you." 

And, following him into the kitchen, 
where I started at every sound as if it were 
my mother's footstep, — that footstep which, 
alas ! would never be heard again, — I sat 
down and listened to the sad particulars. 
He told me that she had been comfortable, 
though gradually losing strength, till the 
day before, when she was seized with a 
violent hemorrhage, which continued for 



GOING HOME. 233 



hours, and which, when at last checked, had 
left her so completely prostrated that she 
almost immediately sank into a lethargy 
and had lain ever since entirely senseless 
and motionless. The physician, who had 
been with her a good deal of the time, 
thought she could not possibly live through 
the night. Indeed, for the last two hours 
she had seemed to be dying. 

I heard all this as if I heard it not, — as 
if it was somebody else, and not I, w T ho 
was listening to that fearful tale. I could 
not speak or think or feel. A terrible 
weight lay on my heart, crushing all life 
out of it. But, when I went into the bed- 
room and saw the pale face and motionless 
form which was lying there, and the eyes, 
which had always beamed such a sweet wel- 
come, so heavily closed, and heard the low, 
unequal breathing, it all came to me as a 
reality. It was my mother, and she was 
dying ! God forgive me if in that hour my 
heart rebelled; if I felt that I could not 
have it so ; if under this sudden blow I 
could not for a time lift up my thoughts to 
God or heaven, but only see the grave and 

20* 



tftl TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



feel the depth of my own great sorrow. 
It was my first bereavement. Silent and 
stunned, I sat beside the bed till daylight 
Jiad faded into twilight and twilight into 
darkness, heeding nothing around me and 
gazing fixedly upon that death-stricken face. 
The first breaking of this stillness which I 
can remember w^as the voice of our pastor, 
whose sincere tone of sympathy reached 
my heart. It was only a word; but the 
spell was broken and tears flowed, — bitter, 
burning tears. Yet they relieved me ; and, 
when they all kneeled and implored the 
presence of the Comforter, I too looked up- 
ward. I had a Friend left me, and I seemed 
to hear his voice, saying, "It is I: be not 
afraid." Could I not trust Jesus even to 
take toy beloved mother from me ? Would 
she not go to him and walk beside him in 
the holy city, a pure, shining spirit, freed 
from all sin and sorrow? The precious 
hopes of the gospel, with its Saviour and 
its eternal life, entered into my soul and 
calmed and strengthened it as nothing else 
could. Blessed gospel, making the dark- 
ness light ! 



GOING HOME. 285 



Roused from my stupor, I remembered 
how selfish I had been to sit there forget- 
ting my dear father and sister, whose sor- 
row was, if possible, greater than my sor- 
row. I tried to speak to them, but could 
only weep ; yet it was a sad pleasure to 
clasp each others' hand and know that our 
hearts were one. 

In time, my soul settled into the sacred 
calmness which pervaded that chamber of 
death, and I felt it was good to be there. 
If Death was in it, gliding so close beside 
us that we could feel the rustle of his dark 
wing, Jesus, the Conqueror of Death, was 
there also ; and his face was full of a light 
that dispelled the darkness, so that the 
place was no longer fearful. 

Those watching night-hours, — that noise- 
less room, with its shaded light, its un- 
earthly stillness only broken by some light 
step or the fitful breathing which, as we 
listened, seemed to flicker and go out, — that 
bathing of the pallid brow T , — that moisten- 
ing of the parched lips, — that stopping of 
our heart's pulse as the clock startled us 
by striking the hour so fearfully distinct, or 



236 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



as some distant dog uttered a sudden, dis- 
mal howl, — how painfully it all comes back 
to me now! Who has not a memory of 
such a room, — such a long, long night 
when he was standing on the confines of 
two worlds, begirt with thoughts and hopes 
and fears too great for utterance ? 

How often, as the minutes slowly rolled 
away that night, I thought, "Oh, if she 
could but look at us once more ! If she 
would but speak just once !" And this 
prayer of my heart, which went up per- 
petually, was granted. About two o'clock, 
she revived somewhat, opened her eyes 
and looked about her, evidently gaining 
consciousness by degrees. Then came all 
over her face that sweet, beaming smile 
so peculiarly her own ; and she looked 
steadily and lovingly at each of us. I was 
standing nearest at the moment, and bent 
over and kissed her, whispering, softly, 
"Dear, dear mother!" and she replied, 
faintly, as a spirit might, " My dear boy, I 
am so glad!" Then, looking at my father 
and Susan, she again softly whispered, " I 
am going ! I am so peaceful ! Jesus is 



GOING HOME. 237 



with me !" Then, gazing upon us each 
with a lingering look full of unutterable 
love, she said, "You will come — you will 
all come— soon." She said "Jesus" repeat- 
edly, as if the very name was sweet to her 
soul ; and then, closing her eyes wearily, 
she relapsed into unconsciousness. The fit- 
ful breathing continued a little longer, and 
then ceased without a struggle or a sigh. 

"We watch'd her breathing through the night, — 
Her breathing soft and low, — 
As in her breast the wave of life 
Kept heaving to and fro. 

"So silently we seem'd to speak, 
So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 
To eke her being out. 

" Our very hopes belied our fears ; 
Our fears our hopes belied : 
We thought her dying when she slept,, 
And sleeping when she died. 

" For when the morn came, dim and sad 
And chill with early showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed. She had 
Another morn than ours." 

I wonder now at the composure with 



238 TWENTY YEARS 0¥ MY LIFE. 



which we all went about the house the 
next two days, attending to our necessary 
duties. A sweet calm seemed to pervade 
and hallow every thing. My mother's face 
was very serene and beautiful in death, — 
more beautiful than it had been in life ; 
and, as I gazed upon it, I felt raised above 
all violent grief, and prayed earnestly that 
I might live the few years that remained as 
she would have wished, and then be taken 
to her home and my home, her Saviour 
and my Saviour. The veil which parted 
me from the world of spirits seemed very 
slight, the step between very short, and life 
then appeared valuable only as preceding 
death and eternity. Again and again Susan 
and I stood beside that beloved form and 
spoke gently and tearfully of what a dear, 
blessed mother she had been to us from our 
infancy; and we rather thanked God, even 
in that hour of bereavement, for having 
given her to us than murmured that she 
was taken from us. 

The sudden blow fell most heavily on 
my poor father, and he seemed utterly 
broken down by it. We strove to comfort 






GOING HOME. 239 



him; but he could only say, " You are clear, 
good children. I know you are. But you 
are not Mary!" No, we could not be; but 
we promised each other we would strive to 
be loving, thoughtful children to him all 
his life long, thus softening and cheering 
his loneliness as far as possible. 

After the precious dust had been laid to 
its rest in the little churchyard, we drew 
together in our desolate home and spoke 
of the future. At first I insisted upon 
coming home, for I could not bear to leave 
them alone in this great grief; but, on fur- 
ther thought, we all felt she would not have 
wished it. So it was decided I should re- 
turn to W the next week, and that a 

sister of my father's should come and assist 
Susan in the care of the family. I am sure 
we all felt then as if life could have no 
more actual enjoyment for us, and that 
resignation and peace were all that could 
be hoped for. But in time our feelings 
changed. We knew it was not honouring 
her memory to keep aloof from the duties 
and enjoyments of life, and we entered into 
them again with almost the same freshness 



240 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



• 



and vivacity as ever; for the young heart 
is elastic and readily opens to joyous in- 
fluences. Still, this grief left an abiding 
impression on our souls. The world, with 
that green grave in it, could never be to 
us what it was before ; and wherever we 
went in after-life, or whatever new ties we 
formed, we could never, never forget that 
we were motherless! 

The week I spent at home proved a sad 
and cheerless one in spite of every effort to 
be hopeful and cheerful. Home was so 
changed, everywhere we so missed the 
sweet presence of her who had been its 
light and joy, and we so constantly found 
ourselves turning to look for her sympathy 
and counsel, that our hearts ached with a 
sense of unutterable loneliness. Could we 
always live without her ? Oh, w T hat a deso- 
late, sad life it would be ! 

One day, when this feeling was pressing 
most heavily upon me, my father came in, 
holding a manuscript which he said was ad- 
dressed to me. It was in my dear mother's 
beloved hand. I pressed it to my lips, and 
fast-falling tears for some minutes blinded 



GOING HOME. 241 



my eyes so I could not read it. It was in- 
deed for me, and dated only a very few 
days previous to her death, — a precious 
token that to the last I had been in her 
thoughts. It was as follows : — 

"My dear Allen: — 

"I feel as if something might prevent 
my saying in words what I wish to say to 
you, and so take my pen, — though it is a 
poor substitute. I am conscious of grow- 
ing weaker day by day, and believe I am 
much nearer my end than any one sup- 
poses. If this be merely the fancy of a 
diseased imagination, you will not see these 
lines ; but if it is a shadow of coming evil, 
and I do not see you again, I shall rejoice 
to have written them. 

"I have spoken of coming evil; yet one 
thing I wished to say was, that death has 
no terrors for me, — that it does not seem 
like an evil. Why should it? Will it not 
take me to my Saviour and to the home he 
has prepared for those who love him ? I 
have sometimes doubted if I loved him or 

had any right to appropriate his gracious 
21 



242 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



promises ; but for a few weeks I have felt 
no doubts. All fears have been removed, 
and a peace unspeakable has filled my soul. 
I believe Jesus will go with me through the 
dark valley, even as he has been with me 
through all my earthly pilgrimage, and will 
lead me to his Father's house, where are 
many mansions. Therefore, my dear child, 
do not mourn when I am gone. I fear you 
will feel very lonely when you come home 
and find no mother here to welcome you, 
for you have been always a loving child to 
me; but I do not wish you to think sadly, 
but cheerfully, of me, — as of one who has 
entered into a rest for which her soul 
longed. Think of me tenderly, too, as 
one who loved you far better than you 
have ever conceived, — as one who still 
loves you and is permitted, perhaps, to 
watch over your path, an unseen but loving 
spirit. We know not how this may be ; but 
we know that Jesus is near you and that 
he loves you even more tenderly than I 
have done. He can save you from all evil ; 
while my poor arm was weak and powerless 
to protect you. 



GOING HOME. 243 



" Can it be that I shall never speak an- 
other word of warning or of counsel to 
you? Oh, my child, would I had been 
more faithful to you ! But Jesus can teach 
you and guide you; and to his Almighty 
arm I commit you in faith, knowing he 
will keep you. Go to him now for counsel, 
for sympathy, for strength, and he will be 
better to you than any earthly friend. I 
believe you are a child of his; but even 
his children wander into forbidden paths ; 
but I trust you will live very near to him, 
my child, finding in him all fulness and 
blessedness. You will be often tempted 
to plunge into business and pleasure so 
eagerly as to forget God and prayer; but 
do not yield to the temptation, as you value 
your happiness or usefulness. Let no haste 
be too great to admit of your asking God's 
blessing on your business or recreation ; and 
never engage in any thing on which you 
cannot conscientiously hope for it. Let the 
apostle's motto be your's: — 'Not slothful 
in business, fervent in spirit, serving the 
Lord.' Seek for a contented, humble 
spirit. Naturally ambitious, I fear you 



244 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



will too often be seeking for great things 
in the world, and, if you cannot attain to 
distinction among men, will be discontented 
and repining. This is one form of selfish- 
ness which must be displeasing to God, in 
whose sight only moral excellence is of 
any value. I would have you cherish an 
honourable desire for success and influ- 
ence ; but beware lest it become an un- 
hallowed fire. Pray that you may desire to 
be useful rather than great; and may God 
so kindle in your breast a noble endeavour 
to bless your fellow-men that no meaner 
motive may find room to enter ! 

"It may not be necessary to speak to you 
again of being perfectly upright and truth- 
ful in your business-transactions. I trust 
you feel the necessity of it; but I must re- 
fer to it once more, for I would fain have my 
dear boy a mirror of nobleness in this par- 
ticular, — not contented with being merely 
honest so far as keeping man's laws is con- 
cerned, but possessing a keen sense of jus- 
tice and of what is due to your fellow-men. 
If subterfuges and equivocations are re- 
garded as right by those with whom you 



GOING HOME. 245 



bargain, scorn them with all your heart. 
Rise above all trickery and deception, and 
choose to be poor in the sight of men ra- 
ther than dishonest in the sight of God. I 
believe you will thus choose. I feel a con- 
fidence that you will not disappoint my 

hopes. Your decision in coming to W 

showed you could sacrifice inclination to 
duty. Oh, my son, that decision gave me 
more true joy than I can express ; and you 
may always have the consolation of know- 
ing that your mother's last hours were sweet- 
ened by this act of filial duty. You will 
be blessed by the reward of an approving 
conscience, and, I doubt not, even in this 
life will prosper, for God's blessing maketh 
rich and addeth no sorrow; but, if not, the 
reward of right-doing will surely come. 
My blessing, my dear child, will rest upon 
you, and my last prayer will " 

Here the manuscript ended. It had evi- 
dently been laid into the drawer hastily, 
and, before the pen could be resumed, that 
fatal attack came on. It was a sacred 
legacy to me; and, in all the years that 
21* 



246 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



have intervened, I have never looked at it 
without feeling that my mother's spirit was 
very near to me. It was most precious to 
me, cut off from all closing intercourse as I 
was, to know that she had blessed me at 
the last; and the remembrance of it shed a 
sweetness over all my future life. 



MY TWENTIETH YEAR. 247 



CHAPTER XVI. 

MY TWENTIETH YEAR. 

The leaving of my desolate home was 
sad enough; and, when I found myself 

once more at W , I was overwhelmed 

with such a feeling of loneliness as I had 
never had before. Mr. Sherman showed 
much kind sympathy, every one was con- 
siderate and thoughtful, and I tried to be 
cheerful for the sake of others ; but, when 
I went into my own room, a sense of deso- 
lation would come upon me. How could 
I care to read or write, now she would 
never know it or be made happy by my 
improvement? Yet would she not know 
it? It was hard to think of her as quite 
away; and often and often at night, when 
the stars looked down in their glittering 
stillness, I thought I could see her gazing 



248 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



at me and hear her sweet, low voice. I 
believe this fancy was an incentive to right, 
action ; and, if that were a mere fancy, it 
was no fancy that Jesus was watching me; 
and I tried to confide in him now as my 
dearest friend. But I often forgot him, and 
my heart grew cold and a tide of worldly 
cares and pleasures came in; and then I 
omitted prayer and became very guilty and 
miserable. But when I came to myself, 
and sought Jesus anew, as a vile sinner 
needing pardon, his arms were always open 
to receive the wanderer, guilty and un- 
grateful as I had been. 

Occasionally I went home to pass a Sun- 
day. Though sadly changed, it was still 
the dearest spot on earth ; and my father 
and Susan always gave me a most joyful 
welcome. I looked with pride on my sweet 
sister, whose manners were so kind and 
gentle to all and whose spirit was so self- 
sacrificing and lovely. My father doated 
on her. She was the pet lamb of the fold, 
the light of his heart and home. Aunt 
Rachel was with them, — a help in many 
things, but ah, so unlike my mother! 



MY TWENTIETH YEAR. 249 



Susan had planted a rose-tree by my mo- 
ther's grave, and we watered it plentifully 
with our tears; and, standing in that sacred 
spot, we felt more than ever that we were 
closely allied to each other. It touched 
whatever of manliness there was in my 
heart to see how this dear sister leaned 
upon and looked up to me ; and I secretly 
resolved I would prove worthy of her con- 
fidence. 

The succeeding year was marked by few 
important events. Several months of it 

were spent in A , where Mr. Sherman 

had contracted to build a church. I worked 
hard, but cheerfully. My health was ex- 
cellent, and no one could outstrip me in 
climbing the highest points or striking the 
heaviest blow. I felt a laudable pride in 
my capacity to accomplish a great day's 
work; and when driving nails I used some- 
times to say merrily to myself. "This is 
better than being a soldier, chopping off 
heads, — better, too, than standing at a 
writing-desk or behind a counter." My 
employment gave full scope to my muscu- 
lar pov/ers and was developing my figure 



250 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



into broad, manly proportions and my 
heart into a healthful strength and cheer- 
fulness. Each day increased my skill and 
proficiency in my business; and my ac- 
tivity and thoroughness often gained me 
commendations from Mr. Sherman, whose 
quick eye saw every thing and who always 
enjoyed bestowing praise when he could. 

Two changes which occurred during the 
winter gave me pleasure. One was that 
Mr. Sherman made arrangements for my 
boarding in his family, where I found a 
most delightful home. The friends who 
came to his house were intelligent, and 
many of them well-educated, persons, though 
mostly mechanics and their families. I do 
not think I had much cause to regret being 
shut out from the circle in which our clerks 
moved; for, though there might be in it 
more refinement and cultivation of man- 
ners, I doubt if there was more genuine 
good sense and knowledge of a practical 
kind than I found here. I had also access 
to a well-selected library, and read a great 
deal in the evenings and sometimes aloud 
to Mr. and Mrs. Sherman. 



MY TWENTIETH YEAR. 251 



The other change was in Scott, my fel- 
low-apprentice. From being boisterous and 
profane, he had become quiet and steady; 
and, though not in all respects what I could 
wish, he was astonishingly improved in de- 
portment and character. Unfortunately, he 
had never acquired a taste for reading, and 
was therefore driven abroad for amusement 
at evening ; but he abstained from the low 
haunts he had frequented. He came to the 
Sunday-school, and seemed to have a re- 
spect for the things he had once so con- 
stantly ridiculed. I sometimes wondered 
if my mother had prayed for him, and if 
that dying prayer was not answered, or if 
even now, in the world of glory, she was 
permitted to ask for blessings on those left 
below. More than once he said to me, — 

"I believe Mr. Sherman is a Christian. 
I used to think religion was all a sham ; but 
there is something real in his religion. He 
lives as if he believed it." 

If all professing Christian masters lived 
as if they believed religion to be something 
real, would there be so many unbelieving, 
impenitent apprentices ? 



252 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



This year of my life, I think, was one of 
advance in all respects. I was steadily ac- 
quiring more knowledge of business and of 
men and gradually gaining truer views of 
life and of my own position and duties. 
Seeing how labour could be united to the 
noblest aspirations, and how Christian prin- 
ciples, carried out into business-life, im- 
parted industry and energy, sterling integ- 
rity and a nobleness of aim to common- 
place duties, I began to respect my position 
as a labourer and to feel that it was a truly 
honourable and desirable one. I felt that I 
was in my right place and was at peace. 

Occasionally I had a return of my old 
pride and discontent; but rarely. Once I 
remember being greatly mortified by meet- 
ing a young man of whom I had known a 
good deal in New York, — a dashing, good- 
natured son of a merchant, whom we had 
regarded as quite our superior in Harry 
Dawson's set. I was going to my work one 
day at noon, dressed as usual in my work- 
ing-clothes and carrying some of my tools 
in my hand. My first feeling was a wish to 
avoid him ; but it was too late. He saw me 



MY TWENTIETH YEAR. 253 



and exclaimed, ""Why, is this you, Rich- 
mond?" with such a look of unfeigned as- 
tonishment that I saw he felt — just as I ex- 
pected he would— that I had come down 
terribly in the world. 

"I am an apprentice to a carpenter now," 
I answered. "Where are you living?" 

"Oh, still in New York, of course," he 
said, with a contemptuous smile. "What 
in the world possessed you to come here 
and live such a dismal life as this ? Why, 
such a fellow as you might get a good place 
in the city any day." 

"I have decided in favour of being a me- 
chanic; and I like it very much," I said. 

He was in haste, and I had no time to 
spare : so, after a few inquiries about old 
friends, We parted, he in his genteel dress, 
with an air of self-satisfied complacency and 
an assumption of superiority which I found 
it hard to bear. I had tried to be brave in 
speaking of my occupation ; but there was a 
miserable weakness still in my heart which 
kept me for hours contrasting his lot with 
mine and reminding me that I might have 
been as well off as he, but that now I should 

22 



254 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 






never be any thing but a poor, despised me- 
chanic. 

I did not recover my composure all the 
afternoon ; and not until I had gathered at 
evening with the family around their cheer- 
ful fireside could I shake off the miserable 
depression. Then better feelings came. I 
saw I was surrounded by cheerful and ele- 
vating influences ; and my heart was grate- 
ful for them. How or where could I be 
better off? And then, too, came the sweet 
remembrance of having done what was 
right and the consciousness that my mo- 
ther's dying blessing rested upon my head. 
My heart glowed at this thought with a de- 
light no earthly station or treasure could 
have conferred ; and I looked upward to 
see approving faces bending upon me from 
above and to feel that peace which only an 
approving conscience can bestow. I felt 
rich, contented, willing to labour, — to be 
looked down upon, if need be, — if only I 
might be approved of God and the holy 
ones who surrounded him. Of what con- 
sequence was it, I asked myself, if a poor 
fellow-mortal did not respect me, when I 



MY TWENTIETH YEAR. 255 



might commune with such unseen friends 
and have a spirit in harmony with their's? 
I could say, from my heart, that it was of 
no consequence, and that I would not in fu- 
ture be annoyed by knowing I was looked 
down upon by those who could not appre- 
ciate my motives. And yet, alas ! I did 
suffer when again brought into contact with 
those who regarded me as an inferior, — 
so deep-rooted was my foolish pride and so 
hard to be eradicated were the evil propen- 
sities of my nature. 

The second year of my apprenticeship 
glided away so pleasantly and swiftly as to 
leave few distinct impressions on the me- 
mory. I kept my journal pretty punctually ; 
but it is only a record of passing events, of 
little consequence in the review. One ex- 
perience, however, stands out more promi- 
nently, and had such an influence in form- 
ing my character — especially my religious 
one— that I will recount it here. 

Mr. Dean, our pastor, was a most earnest, 
godly man, whose heart was always in his 
work ; and early in the winter of this year 



256 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



he requested any who might wish for per- 
sonal conversation on religious subjects to 
come to his study on Wednesday evenings. 
I hesitated about accepting this invitation; 
yet my conscience urged me to do it. I 
had of late been so much engrossed by 
worldly pleasures, and had thought so 
little of God and my duties to him, that 
I doubted very much whether I had any 
reason to consider myself one of his chil- 
dren. The Scriptures spoke of such as 
being "born again;" as "new creatures 
in Christ Jesus;" as being "transformed 
into his image;" and I asked myself if a 
heart so full of evil desires as mine — so 
slow to commune with heaven, so filled 
with a love of the world — could be a re- 
newed heart. So I went, on the appointed 
evening, and told Mr. Dean of my former 
hopes and present doubts. He advised me 
not to dwell too much upon the past, but 
to inquire, earnestly, "Am I willing now to 
consecrate myself wholly to the Saviour, — 
to relinquish whatever is opposed to his 
will, and live for him?" This question dis- 
tressed me greatly ; and I came home trying 



MY TWENTIETH YEAR. 257 



to evade it, — to fall back on my old hope 
and so escape any searching examination 
into my present motives. I had wandered 
so far from the right path that I was un- 
willing to make the effort to retrace my 
steps, and would fain have wandered still 
farther on in the easy downward road. But 
I could not do it. Conscience was aroused, 
and I was forced to look at myself. Never 
had I seen in my heart more vile and cor- 
rupt affections or a greater want of holy 
love. There was an obstacle standing be- 
tween me and my Saviour. I saw it, felt 
it. Was I willing to give it up? This 
question filled my soul with such anguish 
as showed me how far I had strayed from 
the right path. I had become acquainted 
with a circle of gay young ladies, (the 
very circle I had once so much wished 
to enter,) and they had smiled upon and 
sometimes flattered me, thus quickening 
into flame the latent sparks of vanity which 
lay concealed in my foolish heart. Among 
them was one who filled a large space 
in my thoughts. Gay and giddy I knew 
her to be; but she was very fascinating. 

22* 



258 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



Full of life, dressing fashionably, singing 
sweetly, playing on the piano, (then a 
rarer accomplishment than now,) and be- 
longing to a showy though not well- 
educated family, her notice had flattered 
me ; and gradually she had become more 
and more the centre around which my 
thoughts revolved. Had she possessed prin- 
ciples of a high order, her influence over 
me might have been salutary; but she was 
vain, and at best a silly trifler; and few 
things could have more effectually lessened 
my spirituality than being drawn within 
the sphere of her attractions. When I sat 
down to read my Bible, her image came 
between me and the sacred page. When I 
went to church, my eyes and thoughts wan- 
dered in the direction to find her, instead 
of rising towards a pure and holy God. 
And in the stillness of my own room, 
where my soul used to come into blissful 
communion with the unseen Jehovah, I 
now dreamed of pleasure-parties, pretty 
faces and the thousand follies which occu- 
pied me when in society. I was deteriora- 
ting every way. As I went out almost 



MY TWENTIETH YEAR. 259 



every evening, I found little time for read- 
ing; and that little was given to the lightest 
works of poetry or fiction, because they 
were read and talked about by my new 
associates; and when Mr. Sherman gently 
hinted that I was not turning my evenings 
to so good account as formerly, I was of- 
fended, and thought he was interfering with 
what did not concern him. In this manner 
I had been sinking lower and lower; and 
yet, till Mr. Dean's searching test-question 
had led me to a rigid self-examination, 
I had been unconscious of it. Now the 
truth was clearly revealed. I had been pre- 
ferring the indulgence of my own selfish 
desires to serving God, and in my endea- 
vours after other good had wellnigh for- 
gotten him. 

I had no doubt as to what I ought to do. 
In allowing myself to be attracted by a 
giddy, irreligious girl, I had gone away 
from God ; and, if I would now return to 
my allegiance, I must withdraw from her 
influence. The question was, whether I 
was willing to do this. As I look back 
upon it, my state of mind at that time 



260 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



seems very foolish ; but then I felt as if a 
great sacrifice was required of me, which it 
was almost, if not quite, impossible for me 
to make ; and my selfish heart rebelled. I 
see now that it was only a boyish passion 
that stirred my heart, and that I had then 
no conception even of a pure and hallowed 
affection, such as God sanctions and which 
elevates the whole nature into a more beau- 
tiful harmony with all that is truly fair and 
excellent; but I could not see it then. I 
blindly clung to my idol, miserably as it 
degraded me ; and for weeks I vacillated 
between its claims and those of God upon 
my affections. Oh, how infinite was the 
love which still forbore to withdraw itself 
from my guilty heart! How wonderful 
was the patience of the Holy Spirit, which 
would not desert my wretched soul, but 
still sought to draw it heavenward ! 

At length I yielded. I laid myself once 
more at the feet of Jesus, — more than ever 
vile and helpless, — with the old cry, "If 
thou wilt, thou canst make me clean.' - I 
had within me no strength to turn away 
from my follies ; but in him was all power, 



MY TWENTIETH YEAR. 2G1 



and he rescued me! He put around my 
weak, miserable soul his Almighty arm 
and raised it from its degradation. He 
gave me strength to turn away from all 
created good and to worship and serve the 
living God. Sustained by him, I could 
say,— 

" The dearest idol I have known, 
Whate'er that idol be, 
Help me to tear it from thy throne 
And worship only thee." 

Again I tasted of the sweet joy of pardon 
and reconciliation ; again I felt how infi- 
nitely superior to the husks of earthly en- 
joyment was the living bread of which 
Jesus gives his followers to eat. 

This experience of my own weakness 
made me more humble and watchful. I 
was so afraid of my own heart that I 
clung closer to the Saviour's arm to be 
upheld by it. But my pride was wounded 
and my soul humbled in another way. All 
at once, my idol treated me with disdain ; 
and I heard of her saying to a mutual 
friend, or rather acquaintance, — 



262 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



" The conceit of that Allen Richmond is 
intolerable ! Did he dare to suppose I would 
regard him as my equal?" 

How my sensitive heart quivered with 
wounded pride ! How bitter was the mor- 
tification I endured ! But this exquisite 
pain was salutary. It was hard to bear, but 
it broke the spell which had bound me. I 
saw she had only trifled with my feelings 
to give herself an hour's pleasure; and my 
heart was free, — free to turn to my dear 
little sister, more meekly and tenderly than 
ever, — free to cherish my mother's pure and 
hallowed image more reverentially, — free, 
above all, to love Jesus as my truest friend 
and to find in his service my highest joy. 

One scene more, and I have completed 
my sketch of the first twenty years of my 
life, — years which, to a great extent, made 
me what I have been on earth, what I shall 
be in the unseen future. 

My twentieth birthday was on Sunday, 
the 7th of June. It w T as a sweet summer 
day, when all nature was filled with beauty 
and fragrance, — when God's love seemed to 
encircle the earth in undimmed radiance, 



MY TWENTIETH YEAR. 263 



even as the blue arch of heaven bent over 
it without a cloud, — when all was so still 
that the very hills and trees seemed resting 
and worshipping in sympathy with human 
souls. On that lovely day, so full of sum- 
mer beauty, Susan and I stood up in the 
old church in Hillbury, and, before the 
great congregation, avouched the Lord Je- 
hovah to be our God and pledged ourselves 
to be his servants forever. 

It was a day never to be forgotten. 
Whatever was most tender and hallowed 
in the past, most sweet and sacred in the 
present, or most joyful and inspiring in the 
future, gathered around us in that house of 
God, till our hearts swelled with unutter- 
able emotions. It seemed to me as if my 
mother's spirit must be near us, rejoicing 
in the consecration ; and, when the pastor 
spoke of our " being encompassed about 
with so great a cloud of witnesses," my 
heart thrilled with a deep sense of the pre- 
sence of unseen beings. 

Yes, we had indeed come in our weak- 
ness "to the general assembly and church 
of the first-born which are written in hea- 



264 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



ven ? " and to "Jesus, the Mediator of the 
new covenant, and to the blood of sprink- 
ling, that speaketh better things than that 
of Abel," trusting to be cleansed by it from 
all our pollutions. 

It was a solemn pledge for weak, sinful 
beings like us to take upon our lips, — one 
we could never have presumed to utter had 
not Jesus said, "Lo, I am with you alway." 
We believed he had said this to us as well 
as to the first company of disciples, and that 
he would fulfil his promise. Why, then, 
should we fear to enlist under the banner of 
such a glorious Leader, — to gird on our 
armour and go forth to battle, sustained by 
his continual presence and his unfailing 
strength? Thus encompassed, thus sus- 
tained, might we not hope to overcome our 
foes and at last to sing that triumphal song, 
"Thanks be to God, which giveth us the 
victory through Jesus Christ our Lord" ? 

Twenty years of my life had passed; and 
what precious years do they now appear to 
me ! Not that they w T ere my happiest years, 
for I have known many peaceful, happy 






MY TWENTIETH YEAR. 265 



days since then ; but they were the most 
important years of my whole life, — the 
forming years which determined the cha- 
racter of all the succeeding ones. Could 
young men but see, as I see, how every 
step they take is telling on the future, they 
would oftener pause and think. I pray God 
that, if any such should read this record of 
my youth, they may ask themselves, " Do I 
not need a guide in the journey of life 
which I am now beginning? I see it 
stretching out into an endless hereafter; 
and am I wise and strong enough to travel 
to its close alone, — unaided ? Shall I reject 
the proffered help of Him who gently asks, 
'Wilt thou not from this time cry unto 
me, My Father, thou art the guide of my 
youth' ? " 

I am now, at fifty, what I hoped to be at 
twenty, — a contented, prosperous mechanic. 
I became a partner of Mr. Sherman's, and 
the business prospered and enlarged till I 
have acquired all that is needful of worldly 

wealth. I have a home in "W" , with all 

the comforts of life within it and around it, 

23 



266 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



and some of its luxuries, — for such I con- 
sider my well-filled library, my few fine 
pictures, my spacious gardens and grounds 
adorned with ornamental shrubs and choice 
fruit-trees. The garden and grounds are 
my places of recreation, where I spend 
many happy hours. I have earned my 
money honestly, and I have tried to expend 
it wisely, not forgetting those whose cup is 
less bountifully filled. 

My wife, now a sedate and gentle ma- 
tron, has been in later years what my mo- 
ther was in my earlier ones, — the wise, judi- 
cious Christian friend, whose sweet influence 
has always been an elevating and refining 
one, and whose tender counsels have helped 
me onward in the heavenly life. Another 
Allen and Susan are growing up, and, with 
a troop of younger brothers and sisters, fill 
our house with the glad music of children's 
voices. 

The great event of the year is a week's 
visit at Hillbury, when we all go over to 
"Aunt Susan's" to rove about among the 
green hills, to eat her delicious strawberries- 
and-cream, to inspect her dairy and see the 



MY TWENTIETH YEAR. 267 



cows driven home from pasture. "Aunt 
Susan" is the wife of a farmer in Hillbury; 
and her sunny spirit is now the light and 
joy of her husband's home, as it once was 
that of her father's house. 

We are all as gay and frolicsome as kit- 
tens at Hillbury, for the air of that dear old 
place makes a boy of me again ; and my 
wife and children love it, with its pic- 
turesque environment of wooded hills, al- 
most as dearly as I do myself. The chil- 
dren laugh when I tell them how I roved 
barefooted over the pastures and played 
ball with Tom Reed, now, like myself, a 
gray-headed, elderly man, — I, who look so 
old to them. To me it seems scarcely a 
day since I was a boy ; but in the interval a 
lifetime has slipped away. 

Very often we stand beside a green grave 
in the little rural cemetery and talk to our 
children of our dear, sweet mother ; and we 
cannot but feel as if her spirit still hovered 
around her children, rejoicing in their joy, 
and hoping, even amid all the bliss of 
heaven, for a final reunion to them. We 
cannot believe hearts grow colder in that 



268 TWENTY YEARS OF MY LIFE. 



" better land," but rather that there every 
pure affection is strengthened into a holier 
warmth, and that He who setteth the soli- 
tary in families here will rejoice to see them 
gathered there, together worshipping Him 
who is the light and the glory of that hea- 
venly home. 






THE END. 



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